J3'VN0  3Mi 


t 


0  1HE  uNiveRsnv   o 


^& 


w 


\ 


;E  UNIVERSJtV     o 


as 


B 


'   SANIA  BARBARA   O 


y 


«INi*Ojl)V3   iO 


THOMAS    MOOEE 

HIS  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


BY 

ANDREW  JAMES  SYMINGTON,  F.R.S.N.A. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1  880 


TO 

MAEY    HOWITT, 

Whose  sweet  Poems  are  Household  Words 
Treasured  by  Old  and  Young, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    INSCRIBED, 
With  Affection  and  Esteem, 

By  one  who. 

During  Six-and-thirty  Changeful  Years, 

Has  found,  in  her, 

An  Unchanging  Friend. 

A.  J.  S. 

Langside,  Glasgow. 


PREFACE, 


The  aim  of  the  writer,  throughout  the  following  pages, 
has  been  to  present  a  true  picture  of  the  poet  Moore — 
the  man,  his  life,  and  works.  The  facts  have  been 
carefully  culled  from  reliable  sources;  and  various 
opinions  regarding  the  poet  and  his  writings,  although 
formed  from  different  points  of  view,  have  neverthe- 
less, in  accordance  with  this  aim,  been  duly  recorded. 
Copious  extracts  from  his  Poems  and  from  his  Diary 
are  also  given,  so  as  to  enal)le  the  reader,  while  making 
use  of  the  information,  criticism,  and  guidance  herein 
afforded,  also,  independently,  to  judge  of  and  enjoy  for 
himself  what  we  set  before  him. 

A.  J.  S. 

Langside,  Glasgow, 

1879. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Page 

Early  and  College  Days  in  Dublin,  9 

CHAPTER  11. 

In  London  Society — Odes  of  Anacreon — Little's  Poems,      12 

CHAPTER   III. 
Bermuda  and  America, 23 

CHAPTER   IV. 

Return  to  England — A  Duel — His  Marriage — Jeffrey — 
Rogers,  34 

CHAPTER  V. 

Mayfield  Cottage — Independent  Spirit — Satires,  ...     38 

CHAPTER  VL 
Lalla  Rookh,        55 

CHAPTER  VIL 

National  Airs  and  Sacred  Melodies — Visit  to  Paris — 
The  Fudge  Family — Sloperton — True  Charity,        ...     98 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Bermuda  Troubles— Continental  Visit — Paris  Sojourn,      108 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Page 
Return    from   the   Continent — Rhymes   for   the   Road — 

Fables    for    the    Holy    Alliance  —  Loves    of    the 

Angels, 118 

CHAPTER  X. 

The    Irish    Melodies — Selections — Moore    as    a    Lyric 

Poet, 132 

CHAPTER  XL 

Moore's  Bearing  in  Society — Personal  Appearance — The 
Burning  op  Byron's  Autobiography — The  Epicurean,   161 

CHAPTER  XIL 

Political  Odes — Life  of  Byron — Summer  Fete— Pension 
— Latter  Works 179 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Latter  Years  and  Death,        222 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Moore's   Memoirs — Opinions  as  to  his  Character — Mrs. 
Moore,  227 

CHAPTER   XV. 

Moore's  Popularity — His  Centenary — Oration  and  Odes 
on  that  Occasion, 2S4 


SELECTIONS 

FEOM    MOOEE'S    POEMS    AND    SONGS. 


The  pieces  distinguished  by  an  asterisk  (*)  are  given  in  full. 


Page 
*0DES   op   ANACREON   XXXV.   XXIV.   XV.   XXIX.    XLI.   XLVI.,      -   13-17 

Lines  to  his  Mother, 20 

My  Birth-day, 21 

To  Lord  Viscount  Strangford,     ------  25 

To  the  Marchioness  Dowager  of  Donegall.     From  Bermuda,  26 

To  George  Morgan,  Esq.     From  Bermuda,          -         -         -  27 

Bermuda, 28 

To  the  Hon.  W.  R.  Spencer,  from  Buffalo,  upon  Lake  Erie,  29 
To  the  Lady  Charlotte  Rawdon.     From  the  Banks  of  the 

St.  Lawrence,    -- 32 

*Canadian  Boat-song, --33 

Byron  on  Jeffrey  and  Moore,      -         -         -         -         -         -  36 

*Susan  (Young  Love  liv'd  once  in  a  Humble  Shed),      -         -  38 

From  The  Twopenny  Post-bag. — *Letter  I.,    -        -        -  42 

Do.                         do.                 *Letter  V.,  with  Inclosure,  44 

Lines  addressed  to  Leigli  Hunt  and  his  Brother,          -         -  46 

*Dialogue  between  a  Sovereign  and  a  One  Pound  Note,         -  47 

*The  Irish  Slave, 49 

*A  Vision— =-in  Imitation  of  Coleridge,           -         -         .         .  50 
From  Lalla  Rookh. — 

From  I.  The  Veiled  Prophet : 

Zelica's  Love,  ------  63 

From  II.  Paradise  and  the  Peri : 

Introduction, 63 

Syria, 65 

The  Tears  of  Penitence,    -         -         -         -  66 


VI  SELECTIONS. 

Page 
From  Lalla  Rookh. — 

From  III.  The  Fire-worshippers,          ....  70 

Hinda's  Love,          .         .         -         -         •  89 

*The  Peri's  Song, 94 

From  IV.  From  the  Light  of  the  Harem : 

Cashmere,       .---..  95 

Light  Causes  may  create  Dissension,        -  96 

*Song  of  the  Arab  Maid,           ...  97 

National  Airs. — *Hark!  the  Vesper  Hymn  is  Stealing — Russian,  99 

Do.                 *Reason,  Folly,  and  Beauty — Italian,      -  99 

Do.  *0h.  Come  to  Me  when  Daylight  Sets — 

Venetian,            .....  100 

Do.                 *A11  that's  Bright  must  Fade — Indian,   .  101 

Do.                 *Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night— Scotch,    -         .  102 

Sacred  Melodies. — *Miriam'sSong — Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel,  103 

Do.                  *This  World  is  all  a  Fleeting  Show,    .  103 

The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris. — *Miss  Biddy's  Last  Epistle,  104 

Rhymes   on   the   Road. — Different    Attitudes    in    which 

Authors  Compose,        -         -  119 

Do.                     *Extract  I.,       -         -         -         -  120 

Do.                     *Extract  IX.,  -         -         -         -  122 

Do.                    ,*ExtractX.,     .         .         -         -  124 

Fables  from  the  Holy  Alliance. ^A  Dream,         .        -  125 

Loves  op  the  Angels. — Song  of  Lilis,  from  the  Second 

Angel's  Story,          .         .         -  127 
Do.                  Nama  and  Zaraph's  Love,  from 

the  Third  Angel's  Story,           .  128 

Moore's  Verse  Described  by  Himself,  in  LaUa  Rookh,         .  133 

Evening  Described  by  Milton  and  Moore,  ....  133-4 

Irish  Melodies. — *Sublime  was  the  Warning,           .        .  140 

Do.                 *Go  where  Glory  waits  thee,          .  •      .  141 

Do.                 *0h !  Breathe  not  his  Name,          .         .  142 

Do.                 *When  He  who  Adores  Thee,        .         -  142 

■  Do.                 *At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night,          -         -  143 

Do.                 *0h  the  Shamrock,       ....  143 

Do,                 *The  Young  May  Moon,       .         -         -  144 

Do.  *The  Harp  that  Once  through  Tara's  Halls,  145 

Do.                 *The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,         .         .  145 


SELECTIONS.  VU 

Page 

Irish  Melodies. — *The  Origin  of  the  Harp,      -        -        -  146 

Do.                 *Sing  Sweet  Harp,        ....  146 

Do.                 *Love's  Young  Dream,          -         -         -  147 

Do.                 *0h  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore,        -  148 

Do.                 *Sweet  Innisfallen,        -         -         -         -  149 

Do.  *0h,  Could  we  Do  with  this  World  of  Ours,  150 

Do.                  *I  Saw  thy  Form  in  Youthful  Prime,    -  151 

Do.                  *She  is  Far  from  the  Land,  -         -         -  152 

Do.                  *'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer,    -         -  152 

Do.                  *The  Minstrel  Boy,       -         -         -         -  153 

Do.                  *I  Saw  from  the  Beach,         -         -         -  153 

Do.                  *Come  Rest  in  this  Bosom,  ...  154 

Do,                 *As  Slow  our  Ship,        -         -         -         -  154 

Do.                  *Dear  Harp  of  my  Country,            -         -  155 

Ballads.  Songs,  &c.— *When  Midst  the  Gay  I  Meet,         -  156 

Do.  *When  Twilight  Dews,    -         -         .157 

Do.                   *The  Dream  of  Home,     -         -         -  157 

Do.  *They  tell  me  Thou'rt  the  Favoured 

Guest, 158 

Do.                   *The  Fancy  Fair,    ....  158 

Do.                    *Beauty  and  Song,            ...  159 

Do.                   *0h,  do  not  Look  so  Bright  and  Blest,  160 

From  Evenings  in  Greece. — *Song,        -        -        .        .  166 

The  Temple  of  the  Moon  (Prose  extract),  from  The  Epicurean,  169 

Alciphron, 173 

*The  Periwinkles  and  the  Locusts,  a  Salmagundian 

Hymn, 179 

The  Summer  Fete — Descriptive, 186 

Do.  *Song — Bring  hither,  bring  thy  Lute, 

while  Day  is  Dying,    ...  ISS 
Do.                  *Song— Who'll  Buy?  'tis  Folly's  Shop, 

Who'll  Buy?       -         -         -         -  188 

*Thoughts  on  Editors :  a  Squib, 193 

*Epigram, 197 

*Translation  from  the  Gull  Language :  a  Political  Squib,      -  198 

From  The  Fudges  in  England. — *Larry  O'Branigan's  Letter,  203 

*Lettor  in  Rhyme  to  Sydney  Smith, 219 

*There  was  a  Little  Man :  a  Ballad, 234 


Vill  SELECTIONS. 

Poetical  Tributes  to  the  Memory  of  Moore. 

Page 

T.  D.  Sullivan's  Moore  Centenary  Ode,       ....  242 

^Stoddard's  Tribute  to  Moore, 243 

*Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  on  Thomas  Moore,  -         -         -  244 

*Denis  Florence  Mac  Carthy's  Ode  to  Moore,        ...  246 


THOMAS    MOOEE: 
HIS     LIFE     AND     WRITINGS. 


CHAPTER  L 

EARLY   AND    COLLEGE   DAYS    IN    DUBLIN. 

Thomas  Moore  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  the  year  1780, 
of  humble  but  respectable  parents,  both  of  whom  were 
Roman  Catholics.  His  father,  John  Moore,  was  a  grocer 
and  keeper  of  a  small  wine  store  in  Aungier  Street,  where 
his  dwelling-house  was  over  the  shop.  The  usual  date 
assigned  for  Moore's  birth  is  1779;  but,  although  the 
latter  date  appears  upon  his  tomb-stone,  the  baptismal 
register,  which  has  been  published  by  Earl  Russell,  is 
still  in  existence,  and  proves  that  he  was  born  in  1780. 
To  his  mother's  judicious  home-training,  Moore  was  in- 
debted for  his  future  success  in  society. 

He  was  first  sent  to  school,  at  a  very  early  age,  to  a 
Mr.  Malone,  in  the  same  street — "  a  wild,  odd  fellow,"  he 
says,  "  of  whose  cocked  hat  I  have  still  a  clear  remem- 
brance, and  who  used  to  pass  the  greater  part  of  his 
nights  in  drinking  at  public-houses,  and  was  hardly  ever 
able  to  make  his  appearance  in  the  school  before  noon. 
He  would  then  generally  whip  the  boys  all  round  for 
disturbing  his  slumbers." 

He  afterwards  attended  the  grammar-school  of  Mr. 
Samuel  White,   eminent   as   an  elocutionist,    but  more 


10  IjIFE   sketch    of   THOMAS   MOORE. 

widely  known  as  the  teacher  of  Eichard  Brinsley  Sheridan, 
and  Thomas  Moore. 

His  youth  was  spent  in  a  troubled  political  period. 
The  French  Revolution  was  regarded  as  a  hopeful  event 
by  the  Ultramontane  party  in  Ireland,  and  the  poet  used 
to  tell  how  he  remembered,  at  a  great  public  dinner,  sit- 
ting on  the  chairman's  knee,  while  the  toast,  "  May  the 
breezes  from  France  fan  the  Irish  oak  into  verdure," 
went  round  amidst  triumphant  cheering. 

In  1794  Moore  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  with 
a  view  to  study  for  law.  His  career  there  was  more  than 
an  ordinary  success,  although,  hating  Latin  hexameters,  he 
often  substituted  English  for  Latin  verse,  when  he  conveni- 
ently could  do  so.  From  his  childhood  he  had  exhibited 
a  genius  for  lyric  verse  and  music;  and  two  of  his  pro- 
ductions, dropped  into  the  letter-box  of  a  Dublin  maga- 
zine called  The  Anthologia,  appeared  in  its  pages,  bearing 
the  initials  "T.  M.,"  when  he  was  only  fourteen  years  of 
age.  He  Avas  fond  of  recitation,  and  was  Mr.  White's 
favourite  s]iow-s,Qho\z.v.  "I  attained  the  honour,"  says 
Moore,  "  of  being  singled  out  by  him  on  days  of  public 
examination  as  one  of  his  most  successful  and  popular 
exhibitors — to  the  no  small  jealousy,  as  may  be  supposed, 
of  all  other  mammas,  and  the  great  glory  of  my  OM^n. 
As  I  looked  particularly  infantine  for  my  age,  the  wonder 
was,  of  course,  still  more  wonderful.  'Oh,  he's  an  old  little 
crab,'  said  one  of  the  rival  Cornelias,  on  an  occasion  of 
this  kind;  'he  can't  be  less  than  eleven  or  twelve  years  of 
age,'  '  Then,  madam,'  said  a  gentleman  sitting  next  to 
her,  who  was  slightly  acquainted  with  our  family,  'if 
that  is  the  case  he  must  have  been  four  years  old  before 
he  was  born.'  This  answer,  which  was  reported  to  my 
mother,  won  her  warm  heart  towards  that  gentleman  for 
ever  after." 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  11 

In  one  of  his  prefaces,  he  says,  "So  far  back  in  child- 
hood lies  the  epoch,  that  I  am  really  unable  to  say  at 
what  age  I  first  began  to  act,  sing,  and  rhyme."  There  is 
a  playbill,  still  extant,  of  a  performance  at  Lady  Barrowes' 
private  theatre,  where  one  of  the  attractions  set  forth  is 
"An  Epilogue,  'A  Squeeze  to  St.  Paul's,'  Master  Moore." 
The  bill  is  dated  1790,  and  Master  Moore  was  then  ten 
years  old.  Eeferring  to  his  happy  home  life  and  to  the 
fostering  care  of  his  parents,  he  gratefully  adds : — "  To 
these  different  talents,  such  as  they  were,  the  gay  and 
social  habits  prevailing  in  Dublin  afforded  frequent  oppor- 
tunities of  display;  while,  at  home,  a  most  amiable  father, 
and  a  mother  such  as,  in  heart  and  head,  has  rarely  been 
equalled,  furnished  me  with  that  purest  stimulus  to  exer- 
tion— the  desire  to  please  those  whom  we  at  once  most 
love  and  most  respect.  It  was,  I  think,  a  year  or  two 
after  my  entrance  into  college,  that  a  masque  written  by 
myself,  and  of  which  I  had  adapted  one  of  the  songs  to 
the  air  of  Haydn's  '  Spirit  Song,'  was  acted,  under  our 
own  humble  roof  in  Aungier  Street,  by  my  eldest  sister, 
myself,  and  one  or  two  other  young  persons.  The  little 
drawing-room  over  the  shop  was  our  grand  place  of  repre- 
sentation, and  young ,  now  an  eminent  professor 

of  music  in  Dublin,  enacted  for  us  the  part  of  orchestra 
at  the  pianoforte." 

He  continued  to  write  verses  for  The  Anthologia,  and, 
afterwards,  for  other  publications.  His  sister's  music- 
teacher  taught  him  to  play  on  the  pianoforte;  he  learned 
Italian  from  Father  Ennis  a  priest;  and  picked  up  French, 
from  La  Fosse  an  emigrant  acquaintance. 

In  1798  Moore  narrowly  escaped  being  involved  with 
Emmet  and  others  in  a  charge  of  sedition.  He,  without 
doubt,  sympathized  with  their  cause,  and  anonymously 
wrote  two  articles,  one  a  poem  and  the  other  a  fiery 


12  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

letter,  in  favour  of  the  movement,  for  The  Press — a  revo- 
lutionary paper  started  towards  the  end  of  1797  by 
Arthur  O'Connor,  Eobert  Emmet,  and  other  chiefs  of  the 
United  Irish  conspiracy.  His  mother,  coming  to  know  of 
it,  bound  him  by  a  solemn  promise  never  again  to  contri- 
bute to  The  Press,  so  that,  afterwards,  when  he  was 
hauled  up  and  examined  before  Fitzgibbon,  the  vice- 
chancellor,  he  owed  his  escape  from  danger  to  his  having 
given  heed  to  her  warning  voice. 

His  father,  having  saved  a  little  money,  now  resolved 
to  send  his  son  to  London  to  prosecute  his  law  studies. 
In  the  same  year — 1798— which  saw  so  many  of  his 
companions  exiled  or  dead,  Thomas  Moore  graduated  as 
B.A.,  and,  bidding  adieu  to  his  native  city,  set  out  for 
London,  where,  early  in  1799,  he  entered  as  a  student  at 
the  Middle  Temple. 

His  mother,  we  are  told,  gave  him  no  trouble  in  carrying 
bank-cheques  to  the  metropolis,  but  in  good  houseAvifely 
fashion  carefully  sewed  up  the  gold  guineas  Avith  a  blessed 
scapular  in  the  waistband  of  his  pantaloons. 


CHAPTEE    IL 

IN    LONDON    SOCIETY — ODES   OF   ANACREON — LITTLE's   POEMS. 

Moore  had  already  translated  the  Odes  of  Anacreon, 
and  shortly  after  settling  in  London  he  fortunately  was 
able  to  arrange,  through  Dr.  Hume,  one  of  his  earliest 
friends,  with  Stockdale  of  Piccadilly,  for  their  publication 
in  a  quarto  volume. 

The  young  student  and  Bachelor  of  Arts,  now  returned 
home  to  Dublin.     On  his  next  visit  to  England,  through 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  13 

another  early  and  kind  friend,  Joe  Atkinson,  he  was 
introduced  to  Lord  Moira;  for  he  Avell  knew  that, 
in  the  then  transition  state  of  literature,  the  success  of 
any  publishing  venture  Avas  largely  dependent  on  the 
obtaining  of  a  good  name  for  patron;  and,  so  far,  the  poet 
was  still,  in  common  with  others,  a  dependent;  although, 
later  on  in  life,  he  was  in  a  position  successfully  to  dic- 
tate to,  and,  independently,  arrange  with  his  publishers, 
on  his  own  acknowledged  merits. 

Lord  Moira,  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  the  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  became  subscribers 
for  this  work.  To  Lord  Moira  he  owed  his  introduction 
to  this  select  circle;  and  the  Pinnce  of  Wales  permitted 
the  dedication  of  the  Odes  to  himself.  The  volume  was 
published  in  1800,  when  the  poet  was  just  of  age.  He 
at  once  became  the  fashion.  Those  were  the  days  of 
supper  parties,  and  even  then  wit  Avas  rare  and  valued 
accordingly.  Lord  Moira,  Lord  Holland,  and  Lord  Lans- 
downe Avere  his  friends. 

Moore's  star  Avas  rising,  and  the  literary  world  Avas  full 
of  the  praise  of  the  young  poet.  The  authorities  of  his 
college,  hoAvever,  did  not  subscribe  for  his  Avork.  Moore 
retaliated  by  calling  them  "a  corporation  of  boobies,  Avith- 
out  even  sense  enough  to  thank  heaven  for  anything  like 
an  effort  of  literature  coming  out  of  their  leaden  body." 

From  this  volume  of  translations  AA^e  select  the  follow- 
ing— • 

ODES   OF   ANACEEON. 

ODE    XXXV. 

Cupia  once  upon  a  bed 

Of  roses  laid  his  Aveary  liead ; 

Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 

Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee ; 

The  bee  awak'd — with  anger  wild 


14  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  bee  awak'd,  and  stung  the  child. 
Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries ; 
To  Venus  quick  he  runs,  he  flies ; 
"Oh  mother ! — I  am  wounded  through — 
I  die  with  pain — in  sooth  I  do ! 
Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 
Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing — 
A  bee  it  was — for  once,  I  know, 
I  heard  a  rustic  call  it  so." 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  she  the  while 
Heard  him  with  a  soothing  smile; 
Then  said,  "  My  infant,  if  so  much 
Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bee's  touch, 
How  must  the  heart,  ah,  Cupid  !  be, 
The  hapless  heart  that's  stung  by  thee ! " 

ODE   XXIV. 

To  all  that  breathe  the  air  of  heaven, 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  Nature  given. 
In  forming  the  majestic  bull. 
She  fenced  with  wreathed  horns  his  skull ; 
A  hoof  of  strength  she  lent  the  steed. 
And  wing'd  the  timorous  hare  with  speed. 
She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror. 
And,  o'er  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror 
Taught  the  unnumber'd  scaly  throng 
To  trace  their  liquid  path  along ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove. 
She  plum'd  the  warbling  world  of  love. 

To  man  she  gave,  in  that  proud  hour, 
The  boon  of  intellectual  power. 
Then  what,  oh  woman,  what,  for  thee. 
Was  left  in  Nature's  treasury  1 
She  gave  thee  beauty — mightier  far 
Than  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  war. 
Nor  steel,  nor  fire  itself  hath  jDOwer 
Like  woman  in  her  conquering  hour. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Be  thoii  biit  fair,  mankind  adore  thee, 
Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee ! 


Tell  me  why,  my  sweetest  dove, 
Thus  your  humid  ^linions  move, 
Shedding  through  the  air  in  showers 
Essence  of  the  balmiest  flowers] 
Tell  me  whither,  whence  you  rove, 
Tell  me  all,  my  sweetest  dove. 

Curious  stranger,  I  belong 
To  the  bard  of  Teian  song ; 
With  his  mandate  now  I  fly 
To  the  nymph  of  azure  eye; — 
She,  whose  eye  has  madden'd  many, 
But  the  poet  more  than  any. 
Venus,  for  a  hj^mn  of  love. 
Warbled  in  her  votive  grove, 
('Twas  in  sooth  a  gentle  lay,) 
Gave  me  to  the  bard  away. 
See  me  now  his  faithful  minion. — 
Thus  with  softly -gliding  pinion. 
To  his  lovely  girl  I  bear 
Songs  of  passion  through  the  air. 
Oft  he  blandly  whisjiers  me, 
"Soon,  my  bird,  I'll  set  you  free." 
But  in  vain  he'll  bid  nie  fly, 
I  shall  serve  him  till  I  die. 
Never  could  my  plumes  sustain 
Euftling  winds  and  chilling  rain. 
O'er  the  plains,  or  in  the  doll, 
On  the  mountain's  savage  swell. 
Seeking  in  the  desert  wood 
Gloomy  shelter,  rustic  food. 
Now  I  lead  a  life  of  ease, 
Far  from  rugged  haunts  like  these. 
From  Anacreon's  hand  I  eat 


16  LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Food  delicious,  viands  sweet ; 
Flutter  o'er  his  goblet's  brim, 
Sip  the  foamy  wine  with  him. 
Then,  when  I  have  wanton'd  round 
To  his  lyre's  beguiling  sound ; 
Or  with  greatly-moving  wings 
Faun'd  the  minstrel  while  he  sings : 
On  his  harp  I  sink  in  slumbers, 
Dreaming  still  of  dulcet  numbers ! 

This  is  all — away — away — 
You  have  made  me  waste  the  day. 
How  I've  chatter'd  !  prating  crow 
Never  yet  did  chatter  so. 

ODE    XXIX. 

Yes — loving  is  a  painful  thrill, 

And,  not  to  love,  more  painful  still ; 

But  oh,  it  is  the  worst  of  pain, 

To  love  and  not  be  lov'd  again! 

Affection  now  has  fled  from  earth, 

Nor  fire  of  genius,  noble  birth. 

Nor  heavenly  virtue,  can  beguile 

From  beauty's  cheek  one  favouring  smile. 

Gold  is  the  woman's  only  theme. 

Gold  is  the  woman's  only  dream. 

Oh!  never  be  that  wretch  forgiven — 

Forgive  him  not,  indignant  heaven! 

Whose  grovelling  eyes  could  first  adore. 

Whose  heart  could  pant  for  sordid  ore. 

Since  that  devoted  tliirst  began, 

Man  has  forgot  to  feel  for  man ; 

The  pulse  of  social  life  is  dead. 

And  all  its  fonder  feelings  fled! 

War  too  has  sullied  Nature's  charms. 

For  gold  provokes  the  world  to  arms : 

And  oh!  the  worst  of  all  its  arts. 

It  rends  asunder  lovino-  hearts. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  17 

ODE   XLI, 

When  Spi'ing  adorns  the  dewy  scene, 
How  sweet  to  walk  the  velvet  green, 
And  hear  the  west  wind's  gentle  sighs,' 
As  o'er  the  scented  mead  it  flies! 
How  sweet  to  mark  the  jiouting  vine ; 
Ready  to  burst  in  tears  of  wine ; 
And  with  some  maid,  who  breathes  but  love, 
To  walk,  at  noontide,  through  the  grove, 
Or  sit  in  some  cool,  green  recess — 
Oh,  is  not  this  true  happiness? 

ODE   XLVI. 

Behold,  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring, 
G  ives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing ; 
While  virgin  Graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languish'd  into  silent  sleep ; 
And  mark  !  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  tlie  reflecting  wave; 
While  craiies  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away ; 
And  cultur'd  field,  and  winding  stream, 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flowery  bells; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine, 
Clusters  ripe,  festoon  the  vine ; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping. 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping. 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see, 
Nui'sing  into  luxury. 

Moore's  brilliant  conversational  powers,  with  his  poeti- 
cal and  musical  gifts,  rendered  him  everywhere  a  welcome 


18  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOOUE. 

guest,  and  he  Avas  now  plunged  headlong  into  the  vortex 
of  London  fashionable  society. 

In  aristocratic  circles  he  found  that  refinement  and  cul- 
tured taste  which  accorded  with  his  inner  cravings ;  for,  as 
Lord  John  Russell  observes,  "  Beyond  the  mere  pleasure 
of  the  encounter,  it  cannot  be  disputed  that  much  is  to 
be  learned  from  the  conversation  of  men  of  reading  and 
observation.  Mr.  Fox  declared  that  he  learned  more, 
from  Mr.  Burke's  conversation,  than  from  all  the  books 
he  had  ever  read.  It  often  happens,  indeed,  that  a  short 
remark  in  conversation  contains  the  essence  of  a  quarto 
volume." 

Here  we  transcribe  a  pleasant  sprightly  letter  Avhich  he 
received  from  his  friend.  Miss  Godfrey,  the  sister  of 
Lady  Donegall : — 

"Dec.  27,  1801. 

"  I  have  this  moment  received  your  letter,  and  me  void  Ja 
plume  d  la  main  pour  y  repondre;  not  to  tell  you  what  we 
can  make  of  you,  for  God  only  knows  what  you  are  good  for, 
or  whether  you  are  good  for  anything,  bvit  to  lament  and 
groan  over  your  restless  disposition.  Your  talents  might  fit 
you  for  everything,  and  your  idleness  unfits  you  for  anything. 
You  want  to  come  to  town,  I  know  you  do,  merely  to  get  away 
from  those  country-bred,  sentimental  ladies,  the  Muses,  and  I 
pray  that  you  may  have  no  other  ladies  in  view  to  supply 
their  place.  You  really  might,  if  you  pleased,  study  all  the 
morning  and  amuse  yourself  all  the  evening.  I  entreat  yon 
to  make  an  effort,  and  not  devote  every  hour  and  moment  of 
your  existence  to  pleasure.  You  know  my  sermons  make  you 
laugh — tant  micux.  I  never  desj^air  of  you  when  you  laugh ; 
if  you  yawned  I  should  give  up  the  thing  as  hopeless.  Lady 
C.  RaAvdon  has  so  often  regretted,  and  I  have  so  often  forgiven 
her  not  writing,  that  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  our 
going  on  regretting  and  forgiving  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Abstraction,  self-contemplation,  etiquette,  and,  God  forgive 
me,  I  was  going  to  say  strict  moraliti/,  but  I  I'etract  that,  are 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  19 

not  gi-eat  eulivenei-s  of  society,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  the 
Muses  being  a  little  discomposed  by  such  an  interruption. 
But  who  was  the  unfortunate  fair  one  to  whom  those  very 
pretty  lines  which  you  sent  me  were  addressed  ?  If  Nature 
had  been  as  kind  to  me  as  she  has  been  to  you,  I  would  write 
you  something  upon  the  occasion ;  but  Nature  has  treated  me 
abominably  ill,  for  which  I  shall  never  forgive  her;  she  has 
given  me  feelings  to  aelmire  with  enthusiasm  the  talents  of 
others,  and  she  has  denied  me  even  the  faintest  ray  of  genius. 
I  never  heard  of  the  Seven  Fountains  l^efore.  What  sort  of 
book  is  it — poetry  or  prose?  If  I  should  happen  to  read  it,  I 
suppose  I  must  '  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it.' 
The  snow,  after  which  you  inquire  so  kindly,  has  departed  this 
life,  to  my  great  joy.  I  never  am  in  good-will,  either  with 
myself  or  my  fellow-creatures,  in  cold  weather ;  are  you  1  I 
did  intend  writing  you  to-morrow,  for  which  I  had  a  very 
wise  reason  best  known  to  myself,  but  when  I  received  your 
tiagi-comic,  or  rather  your  more  comic  than  tragic  letter,  I 
resolved  to  answer  it  immediately  to  encourage  you  to  remain 
at  your  post.  Nothing  ever  was  more  disinterested  than  this 
advice,  and  I  never  shall  cease  to  admire  myself  for  giving  it; 
for,  if  I  followed  my  own  inclinations — which  in  general  don't 
lead  me  astray  like  3'ours — I  would  say,  '  Come  up  to  town,  by 
all  means,  and  the  oftener  we  see  you  the  better.'  I  consult 
your  interest  when  I  say  the  contrary.  But  yet  if  you  do 
come,  if  the  truth  must  come  out,  I  shall  most  heartily  rejoice 
to  see  you,  and  so  shall  we  all.  Say  pretty  things  for  me  to 
Lady  Charlotte  about  love  and  friendship,  and  writing  to  each 
other.  I  shall  give  you  a  carte  blanche  upon  the  occasion,  for 
I  suspect  she  does  not  care  the  least  in  the  world  for  me^-it 
is  all  stage  trick  and  fine  acting ;  this  is  quite  entre  nous.  Re- 
member me  to  Lord  Forbes.  God  bless  you,  and  make  a  good 
man  of  you  (I  believe  it  is  almost  impossible). — Yours  very 
sincerely,  M.  Godfrey." 

Amidst  gaieties,  he  preserved  unimpaired  his  strong 
home  affection  for  his  father,  and  mother,  and  sister. 
His  father  was  "handsome,  full  of  fun,  possessed  of 


20  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

good  manners,"  and,  as  Moore  said,  "one  of  nature's 
gentlemen."  Moore  always  treated  him  with  a  reverence 
which  could  not  have  been  more  profound,  if  the  old 
man  had  boasted  the  proudest  ancestry  and  the  amplest 
fortune.  To  his  mother,  Anastasia  Moore,  iiee  Codd,  his 
attachment  was,  from  earliest  days,  as  intense  as  it  was 
enduring.  She  was  a  woman  of  mind,  retiring,  unpre- 
tending, and  kindly.  To  her  he  ever  gave  intense  respect 
and  devoted  affection.  In  the  midst  of  his  labours,  his 
trials,  and  his  triumphs,  he  never  failed — except  when 
precluded  by  his  absence  in  Bermuda — to  write  to  her 
twice  a  week;  and  he  freely  told  her  of  everything,  great 
or  small,  that  interested  him,  knowing  it  would  therefore 
interest  her,  his  own  "  darling  mother  " — from  his  intro- 
duction to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  his  visit  to  Niagara, 
to  the  acquisition  of  a  pencil-case  or  the  purchase  of  a 
pocket-handkerchief. 

He  wrote  out  a  volume  of  his  early  poems  expressly 
for  her,  and  prefixed  to  it  a  loving  monograph  preface. 
When  she  died,  she  left  four  thousand  of  his  letters. 
To  her  he  fondly  addressed  these  sweet  verses : — 

"  They  tell  us  of  an  Indian  tree, 

Which — how-soe'er  the  sun  and  sky 
May  tempt  its  boughs  to  wander  free 

And  shoot  and  blossom  wide  and  high- 
Far  better  loves  to  bend  its  arms 

Downward  again  to  that  dear  earth 
From  which  the  life  that  fills  and  warms 

Its  grateful  being  first  had  birth. 
'Tis  thus,  though  woo'd  by  flattering  friends, 

And  fed  with  fame,  if  fame  it  be, 
This  heart,  my  own  dear  mother,  bends 

With  love's  true  instinct  back  to  thee!" 

His  first  letter  addressed  to  her,  in  1793,  ended  thus: — 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  21 

"  Your  absence,  all  but  ill  endure, 
And  none  so  ill  as — Thomas  Moore." 

And  in  1835,  after  her  death,  when  visiting  the  house, 
where  his  mother  had  been  born  and  brought  up,  situated 
in  the  old  corn-market  of  Wexford,  he  wrote : — "  One  of 
the  noblest  minded,  as  well  as  the  most  warm-hearted  of 
all  God's  creatures,  was  born  under  that  lowly  roof." 

His  sister  Ellen,  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached, 
was  a  small  delicate  woman,  with  an  expression  sharp- 
ened somewhat  by  continuous  bodily  ailment;  but  her 
mind  and  disposition  were  essentially  lovable,  and  she 
sang  very  sweetly.  Moore  contrived  in  1803,  when  he 
had  quite  enough  to  do  otherwise,  to  buy  and  send  her  a 
present  of  a  pianoforte. 

Such  were,  ahvays,  his  genuine  and  enduring  home 
feelings,  both  then  and  afterwards,  when  he  was  being 
lionized  in  the  first  London  society. 

In  1801  he  published  a  volume  of  "poems"  under  the 
name  of  "The  Late  Thomas  Little,  Esq."  These  were 
full  of  indecencies,  of  which,  however,  he  was  afterwards 
so  much  ashamed  that  he  altogether  excluded  many  of 
tliem  from  the  collected  edition  of  his  poems. 

His  friend  Eogers  states,  "  So  heartily  has  Moore  re- 
pented of  having  published  Little's  Poems,  that  I  have 
seen  him  shed  tears — tears  of  deep  contrition — when  we 
were  talking  of  them."  And  he  himself  afterwards  thus 
vtTotc,  in  a  poem  called — 

MY   BIETH-DAY. 

"  My  birth-day  " — what  a  diff'rent  sound 
That  word  had  in  my  youthful  ears ! 

And  how,  each  time  the  day  comes  round, 
Less  and  less  white,  its  mark  appears ! 


22  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

When  first  our  scanty  years  are  told, 
It  seems  like  pastime  to  grow  old ; 
And,  as  Youth  counts  the  shining  links, 

That  time  around  him  binds  so  fast, 
Pleas'd  with  the  task,  he  little  thinks 

How  hard  that  chain  will  press  at  last. 
Vain  was  the  man,  and  false  as  vain, 

Who  said — "  were  he  ordain'd  to  run 
His  long  career  of  life  again, 

He  would  do  all  that  he  had  done." — 
Ah,  'tis  not  thus  the  voice,  that  dwells 

In  sober  birth-days,  speaks  to  me 
Far  otherwise — of  time  it  tells, 

Lavish'd  unwisely,  carelessly ; 
Of  counsel  mock'd ;  of  talents,  made 

Haply  for  high  and  pure  designs, 
But  oft,  like  larael's  incense,  laid 

Upon  unholy,  earthly  shrines; 
Of  nursing  many  a  wrong  desire; 

Of  wandering  after  Love  too  far. 
And  taking  every  meteor  fire. 

That  cross'd  my  pathway,  for  his  star. — 
AH  this  it  tells,  and,  could  I  trace 

The  imperfect  picture  o'er  again, 
With  pow'r  to  add,  retouch,  efface 

The  lights  and  shades,  the  joy  and  pain, 
How  little  of  the  past  would  stay ! 
How  quickly  all  should  melt  away — 
All— but  that  Freedom  of  the  Mind, 

Which  hath  been  more  than  wealth  to  nic; 
Those  friendships,  in  my  boyhood  twin'd, 

And  kept  till  now  unchangingly; 
And  that  dear  home,  that  saving  ark, 

Where  Love's  true  light  at  last  I've  found, 
Cheering  within,  when  all  grows  dark. 

And  comfortless,  and  stormy  I'ound ! 

"Moore  at  twenty-one,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Aiheimum, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  23 

"had  a  singularly  acute  insight  into  his  own  character. 
Pretending  to  describe  the  nature  of  the  fictitious  Mr. 
Little,  he  says,  'He  had  too  much  vanity  to  hide  his 
virtues,  and  not  enough  of  art  to  conceal  his  defects.' 
This  indeed  expresses  Moore  completely,  and  is  the  secret 
of  his  marvellous  personal  popularity  and  of  the  ease  with 
which  his  private  character  has  always  been  assailed. 
He  wore  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  the  world  grew 
tired  of  looking  at  it." 


CHAPTER  HI. 

BERMUDA    AND    AMERICA. 

In  1803  Lord  Moira  procured  him  an  appointment 
in  the  Court  of  Bermuda  as  Registrar  of  the  Admiralty. 
Before  sailing  he  wrote  thus  to  his  mother: — 

"Portsmouth,  Thursday,  Sept.  22,  1803. 
"  Just  arrived  at  Portsmouth,  and  the  wide  sea  before  my 
eyes,  I  write  my  heart's  farewell  to  the  dear  darlings  at  home. 
Heaven  send  I  may  return  to  English  ground  with  pockets 
more  heavy  and  spirits  not  less  light  than  I  now  leave  it  with. 
Everything  has  been  arranged  to  my  satisfaction.  I  am  pre- 
pared with  every  comfort  for  tlie  voyage,  and  a  fair  breeze 
and  a  loud  yo-yo-ee !  are  all  that's  now  wanting  to  set  me 
afloat.  My  dear  father  should  write  to  Carpenter  and  tliank 
him  for  the  very  friendly  assistance  he  has  given  me :  without 
that  assistance  the  breeze  would  be  fair  in  vain  for  me,  and 
Bermuda  might  be  sunk  in  the  deep,  for  any  share  that  / 
could  pretend  to  in  it ;  but  now  all  is  smooth  for  my  progress, 
and  Hope  sings  in  the  slii'ouds  of  the  shij)  that  is  to  carry  me. 
Good-by  !  God  bless  you  all,  dears  of  my  heart !  I  will  write 
again  if  our  depaiture  is  delayed  by  any  circumstance.     God 


24  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOOEE. 

bless  you  again,  and  preserve  you  happy  till  the  return  of 
your  Tom. 

"  Urge  Stevenson  to  send  Cai'penter  the  songs ;  I  shall  write 
to  him.     Sv^'eet  Mother,  Father,  Kate,  and  Nell,  good-by !" 

And  again,  on  October  lOtli,  writing  on  shipboard, 
when  a  homeward-bound  sail  was  in  sight.  After  describ- 
ing the  progress  of  the  voyage,  he  says: — 

"Keep  up  your  spirits,  my  sweet  mother,  there  is  every 
hojje,  every  prospect  of  happiness  for  all  of  us.  Love  to  dar- 
ling father,  to  my  own  Kate  and  Nell.  I  am  now  near  two 
thousand  miles  from  you,  but  my  heart  is  at  home.  God  bless 
you.  The  ship  is  bi'ought  to,  and  our  lieutenant  is  just  going 
aboard,  so  I  must  stop. — Your  own,  Tom." 

"  I  wrote  a  line  to  Carpenter  by  a  ship  we  met  off  the 
Western  Islands.  I  hope  he  has  got  it.  Here  is  a  kiss  for 
you,  my  darlings,  all  the  way  from  the  Atlantic." 

He  sailed  on  the  25th  of  September  in  the  Phaeton 
frigate  from  Spithead,  landing  at  Norfolk,  Virginia, 
whence,  after  a  stay  of  about  ten  days,  he  proceeded  in 
a  sloop  of  war  to  Bermuda.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
1804  when  Moore  reached  the  "still-vexed  Bermoothes," 
already  consecrated  to  song  by  Shakspere,  Waller,  and 
Andrew  Marvell. 

To  his  mother,  on  January  19th,  1804,  he  writes: — 

"  These  little  islands  of  Bernuida  form  certainly  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  most  romantic  spots  that  I  could  ever  have  ima- 
gined, and  the  descriptions,  which  represent  it  as  like  a  place 
of  fairy  enchantment,  are  very  little  beyond  the  truth.  From 
my  window  now  as  I  write,  I  can  see  five  or  six  difi'erent 
islands,  the  most  distant  not  a  mile  from  the  others,  and 
separated  by  the  clearest,  sweetest  coloured  sea  you  can  con- 
ceive ;  for  the  water  here  is  so  singularly  transparent  that,  in 
coming  in,  we  could  see  the  rocks  under  the  ship  quite  plainly. 
These  little  islands  are  thickly  covered  with  cedar  gi'oves, 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  25 

through  the  vistas  of  which  you  cntch  a  few  pretty  white 
houses,  which  my  poetical  short-sightedness  always  transforms 
into  temples." 

In  his  Odes  and  Ej^isiks,  subsequently  published,  we 
have  a  series  of  poetical  notes  of  his  progress  from  place 
to  place,  and  from  these  we  shall  give  some  extracts : — 

TO  LORD  VISCOUNT  STEANGFOED. 

ABOARD  THE  PHAETON  FRIGATE,  OFF  THE  AZORES,  BY  MOON- 
LIGHT. 

Sweet  Moon  !  if,  like  Crotona's  sage, 

By  any  spell  my  hand  could  dare 
To  make  thy  disk  its  ample  page, 

And  write  my  thoughts,  my  wishes  there; 
How  many  a  friend,  whose  careless  eye 
Now  wanders  o'er  that  starry  sky, 
Should  smile,  upon  thy  orb  to  meet 
The  recollection,  kind  and  sweet, 
The  reveries  of  fond  regret. 
The  jDromise,  never  to  foi'get, 
And  all  my  heart  and  soul  would  send 
To  many  a  dear-lov'd,  distant  friend. 

Even  now  delusive  hope  will  steal 
Amid  the  dark  regrets  I  feel. 
Soothing,  as  yonder  placid  beam 

Pursues  the  murmurers  of  the  deep, 
And  lights  them  with  consoling  gleam, 

And  smiles  them  into  tranquil  sleep. 
Oh !  such  a  blessed  night  as  this, 

I  often  think,  if  friends  were  near, 
How  we  should  feel,  and  gaze  with  bliss 

Upon  the  moon-bright  scenery  here ! 
The  sea  is  like  a  silvery  lake. 

And,  o'er  its  calm  the  vessel  glides 
Gently,  as  if  it  fear'd  to  wake 


26  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  slumber  of  the  silent  tides. 
The  only  envious  cloud  that  lowers 

Hath  hung  its  shade  on  Pico's  height, 
Where  dimly,  'mid  the  dusk,  he  towers, 

And  scowling  at  this  heav'n  of  light, 
Exults  to  see  the  infant  storm 
Cling  darkly  round  his  giant  form ! 

But  hark  ! — the  boatswain's  pipings  tell 
'Tis  time  to  bid  my  dream  farewell : 
Eight  bells: — the  middle  watch  is  set; 
Good  night,  my  Strangford  ! — ne'er  forget 
That,  far  beyond  the  western  sea 
Is  one,  whose  heait  remembers  thee. 

TO  THE  MAECHIONESS  DOWAGEE  OF  DONEGALL 

FROM  BERMUDA,  JANUARY,  1804. 

Say,  have  you  ne'er,  in  nightly  vision,  stray'd 
To  those  pure  isles  of  ever-blooming  shade. 
Which  bards  of  old,  with  kindly  fancy,  plac'd 
For  happy  spirits  in  th'  Atlantic  waste? 
There  listening,  while,  from  earth,  eacli  breeze  that  came 
Brought  echoes  of  their  own  undying  fame, 
In  eloquence  of  eye,  and  dreams  of  song, 
They  charm'd  their  hqise  of  nightless  hours  along : — 
Nor  yet  in  song,  that  mortal  ear  might  suit. 
For  evei-y  spirit  was  itself  a  lute, 
Where  Virtue  waken'd,  with  elysian  breeze, 
Pure  tones  of  thought  and  mental  harmonies. 

Believe  me.  Lady,  when  the  zephyrs  bland 
Floated  our  bark  to  this  enchanted  land, — 
These  leafy  isles  upon  the  ocean  thrown. 
Like  studs  of  emerald  o'er  a  silver  zone, — 
Not  all  the  charm,  that  ethnic  fancy  gave 
To  blessed  arbours  o'er  the  western  wave, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  27 

Could  wake  a  dream,  more  soothing  or  sublime, 
Of  bowers  ethereal,  and  the  Spirit's  clime. 

Bright  rose  the  morning,  every  wave  was  still, 
When  the  first  perfume  of  a  cedar  hill 
Sweetly  awak'd  us,  and,  with  smiling  charms, 
The  fairy  harbour  woo'd  us  to  its  arms. 
Gently  we  stole,  before  the  whisp'ring  wind, 
Through  plantain  shades,  that  round,  like  awnings  twin'd, 
And  kiss'd  on  either  side  the  wanton  sails, 
Breathing  our  welcome  to  these  vernal  vales; 
While,  far  reflected  o'er  the  wave  sei-ene. 
Each  wooded  island  shed  so  soft  a  green 
That  the  enamour'd  keel,  with  whisp'ring  play. 
Through  liquid  herbage  seem'd  to  steal  its  way. 

Never  did  weary  bark  more  gladly  glide, 
Or  rest  its  anchor  in  a  lovelier  tide  ! 
Along  the  margin,  many  a  shining  dome, 
White  as  the  palace  of  a  Lapland  gnome, 
Brighten'd  the  wave ; — in  every  myrtle  grove 
Secluded  bashful,  like  a  shrine  of  love, 
Some  elfin  mansion  sparkled  through  the  shade ; 
And  while  the  foliage  interposing  play'd. 
Lending  the  scene  an  ever-changing  grace. 
Fancy  would  love,  in  glimpses  vague,  to  trace 
The  flowery  capital,  the  shaft,  the  porch. 
And  dream  of  temples,  till  her  kindling  torch 
Lighted  me  back  to  all  the  glorious  days 
Of  Attic  genius ;  and  I  seem'd  to  gaze 
On  marble,  from  the  rich  Pentelic  mount. 
Gracing  the  umbrage  of  some  Naiad's  fount. 

TO    GEOEGE    MOEGAN,    ESQ. 

FROM  BERMUDA,  JANUARY,  1804. 

But,  bless  the  little  fairy  isle ! 

How  sweetly  after  all  our  ills, 
We  saw  the  sunny  morning  smile 
3 


28  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Serenely  o'er  its  fragrant  hills  ; 
And  felt  the  pure,  delicious  flow 
Of  airs,  that  round  this  Eden  blow 
Freshly  as  ev'n  the  gales  that  come 
O'er  our  own  healthy  hills  at  home. 

Could  you  but  view  the  scenery  fair, 

That  now  beneath  my  window  lies, 
You'd  think,  that  nature  lavish'd  there 

Her  purest  wave,  her  softest  skies, 
,  To  make  a  heaven  for  love  to  sigh  in, 
For  bards  to  live  and  saints  to  die  in. 
Close  to  my  wooded  bank  below, 

In  glassy  calm  the  waters  sleep, 
And  to  the  sunbeam  proudly  show 

The  coral  rocks  they  love  to  steep. 
The  fainting  breeze  of  morning  fails ; 

The  drowsy  boat  moves  slowly  past. 
And  I  can  almost  touch  its  sails 

As  loose  they  flap  around  the  mast. 
The  noontide  sun  a  splendour  pours 
That  lights  up  all  these  leafy  shores; 
While  his  ovv^n  heav'n,  its  clouds  and  beams, 

So  pictur'd  in  the  waters  lie, 
That  each  small  bark,  in  passing,  seems 

To  float  along  a  burning  sky. 

BEEMUDA. 

Farewell  to  Bermuda,  and  long  may  the  bloom 

Of  the  lemon  and  myrtle  its  valleys  perfume ; 

!May  spring  to  eternity  hallow  the  shade. 

Where  Ariel  has  warbled  and  Waller  has  stray'd. 

And  thou — when  at  dawn,  thou  shalt  happen  to  roam. 

Through  the  lime-covered  alley  that  leads  to  thy  home, 

Whei'e  oft,  when  the  dance  and  the  revel  were  done, 

And  the  stars  were  beginning  to  fade  in  the  sun, 

I  have  led  tliee  along,  and  have  told  by  the  way 

What  my  heart  all  the  night  had  been  burning  to  say — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  29 

Oh  !  think  of  the  past — give  a  sigh  to  those  times, 
And  a  blessing  for  me  to  that  alley  of  limes. 

Knowing  that  it  was  an  uncongenial  post,  Moore  only 
remained  there  for  a  few  months  while  arranging  to  have 
his  duties  performed  by  deputy.  In  his  letters  he  de- 
scribed the  scenery  as  beautiful,  but  his  occupation,  in 
examining  witnesses  in  regard  to  captured  vessels,  &c.,  as 
not  very  poetical.  He  left  Bermuda  in  April,  resolved 
to  see  something  of  America  before  his  return  to  Eng- 
land, and  sailed  to  New  York;  from  thence,  after  a 
short  stay,  he  revisited  Norfolk  in  Virginia,  where  Mr. 
Merry,  the  English  minister,  introduced  him  to  President 
Jefferson — the  man  who  drew  up  the  Declaration  of 
American  Independence.  From  Norfolk  he  proceeded 
on  a  pleasure  tour  through  the  States. 

At  Philadelphia  he  formed  some  agreeable  friendships. 
In  lines  addressed  "  To  the  Honourable  W.  E.  Spencer, 
from  Buffalo,  upon  Lake  Erie,"  after  severely  animadvert- 
ing on  the  half  })olished,  half  barbarous  life,  then  common 
in  the  States,  and  incident  to  a  newly-settled  country, 

"  Without  one  breath  of  soul,  divinely  strong 
One  ray  of  mind  to  thaw  them  into  song;" 

by  way  of  contrast,  he  goes  on  to  speak  of  many  pleas- 
ant hours  spent  in  the  society  of  Mr.  Dennie  and  his 
friends  there  :— 

"  Yet,  yet  forgive  me,  oh  ye  sacred  few. 
Whom  late  by  Delaware's  green  banks  I  knew; 
Whom,  known  and  lov'd  through  many  a  social  eve, 
'Twas  bliss  to  live  with,  and  'twas  pain  to  leave. 
Not  with  more  joy  the  lonely  exile  scann'd 
The  writing  trac'd  upon  the  desert's  sand. 
Where  his  lone  heart  but  little  hop'd  to  find 
One  trace  of  life,  one  stamp  of  human  kind. 


30  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Than  did  I  hail  the  pure,  th'  enlighten'd  zeal, 
The  strength  to  reason  and  the  ■warmth  to  feel, 
The  manly  polish  and  the  illuniin'd  taste, 
Which, — 'mid  the  melancholy,  heartless  waste 
My  foot  has  travers'd, — oh  you  sacred  few! 
I  found  by  Delaware's  green  banks  with  you." 

"  Believe  me,  Spencer,  while  I  wing'd  the  hours 
Where  Schuylkill   winds   his  way  through  banks  of 

flowers, 
Though  few  the  days,  the  happy  evenings  few. 
So  warm  with  heart,  so  rich  with  mind  they  flew 
That  my  charm'd  soul  forgot  its  wish  to  roam. 
And  rested  there,  as  in  a  dream  of  home. 
And  looks  I  met,  like  looks  I'd  lov'd  before, 
And  voices  too,  which  as  they  trembled  o'er 
The  chord  of  memory,  found  full  many  a  tone 
Of  kindness  there  in  concord  with  their  own. 
Yes, — we  had  nights  of  that  communion  free. 
That  flow  of  heart,  which  I  have  known  with  thee 
So  oft,  so  warmly;  nights  of  mirth  and  mind. 
Of  whims  that  taught,  and  follies  that  refin'd. 
When  shall  we  both  renew  them?  when,  restor'd 
To  the  gay  feast  and  intellectual  board. 
Shall  I  once  more  enjoy  with  thee  and  thine 
Those  whims  that  teach,  those  follies  that  refine? 
Even  now,  as  wand'ring  upon  Erie's  shore, 
I  hear  Niagara's  distant  cataract  roar, 
I  sigh  for  home, — alas!  these  weary  feet 
Have  many  a  mile  to  journey,  ere  we  meet." 

Recording  his  journey  by  the  MohaAvk  river,  he  Avrites: — ■ 
"  There  is  a  holy  magnificence  in  the  immense  bank  of 
woods  that  overhang  it,  which  does  not  permit  the  heart 
to  rest  merely  in  the  admiration  of  nature,  but  carries  it 
to  that  something  less  vague  than  nature — that  satisfactory 
source  of  all  these  exquisite  Avonders — a  divinity." 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  31 

Visiting  Canada,  Moore  mentions  that  the  captain  of 
the  packet  in  which  he  crossed  "the  fresh-water  ocean," 
Lake  Ontario,  in  addition  to  the  other  marks  of  courtes}^, 
begged,  on  parting  with  him,  to  be  allowed  to  decline 
payment  for  his  passage. 

After  seeing  Niagara  Falls,  he  sailed  down  the  St. 
Lawrence  to  Montreal  and  Quebec,  staying  for  a  short 
time  at  each  of  these  places. 

The  visit  to  Niagara  he  considered  as  an  era  in  his 
life;  and  the  first  glimpse  he  caught  of  that  wonderful 
cataract  gave  him  a  feeling  which  nothing  in  this  world 
could  ever  awaken  again.  "It  was,"  said  he,  when  writ- 
ing of  it  long  afterwards,  "through  an  opening  among 
the  trees,  as  we  approached  the  spot  where  the  full  view 
of  the  Falls  was  to  burst  upon  us,  that  I  caught  this 
glimpse  of  the  mighty  mass  of  waters  folding  smoothly 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice;  and  so  overwhelming 
was  the  notion  it  gave  me  of  the  awful  spectacle  I  was 
approaching,  that,  during  the  short  interval  that  fol- 
lowed, imagination  had  far  outrun  the  reality.  .  .  . 
I  retain  in  my  memory  but  one  other  dream — for  such 
do  events  so  long  past  aj)pear — which  can  in  any  re- 
spect be  associated  with  the  grand  vision  I  have  just 
been  describing;  and,  however  different  the  nature  of 
their  appeals  to  the  imagination,  I  should  find  it  difficult 
to  say  on  which  occasion  I  felt  most  deeply  affected, 
when  looking  on  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  or  when  standing 
by  moonlight  among  the  ruins  of  the  Colosseum."  And, 
again,  of  Niagara,  he  writes : — "  My  whole  heart  and 
soul  ascended  towards  the  Divinity  in  a  swell  of  devout 
admiration  which  I  never  before  experienced.  Oh!  bring 
the  atheist  here,  and  he  cannot  return  an  atheist,  I  pity 
the  man  who  can  coldly  sit  down  to  write  a  description 
of  these  ineffable  wonders.     Much  more  do  I  pity  him 


32  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Adio  can  submit  them  to  the  admeasurement  of  gallons 
and  yards.  It  is  impossible,  by  pen  or  pencil,  to  convey 
even  a  faint  idea  of  their  magnificence.  Painting  is 
lifeless;  and  the  most  burning  words  of  poetry  have  been 
lavished  upon  inferior  and  ordinary  subjects.  We  must 
have  new  combinations  of  language  to  describe  the  Falls 
of  Niagara." 

Of  it,  too,  in  his  Poems  relating  to  America,  he 
wrote : — 

TO   THE   LADY   CHAELOTTE   EAWDON. 

FROM   THE   BANKS   OP   THE   ST.    LAWRENCE. 


I  dreamt  not  then,  that,  e'er  the  rolling  year 
Had  fiU'd  its  circle,  I  should  wander  here 
In  musing  awe  ;  should  tread  this  wondrous  world. 
See  all  its  store  of  inland  waters  hurl'd 
In  one  vast  volume  down  Niagara's  steep. 
Or  calm  behold  them,  in  transparent  sleep, 
Where  the  blue  hills  of  old  Toronto  shed 
Their  evening  shadows  o'er  Ontario's  bed ; 
Should  trace  the  grand  Cadaraqui,  and  glide 
Down  the  white  rapids  of  his  lordly  tide 
Through  massy  woods,  'mid  islets  flowering  fair, 
And  blooming  glades,  where  the  first  sinful  pair 
For  consolation  might  have  weeping  trod, 
When  banish'd  from  the  garden  of  their  Gud. 
Oh,  Lady !  these  are  miracles,  which  man, 
Cag'd  in  the  bounds  of  Europe's  pigmy  span. 
Can  scaixely  dream  of, — which  his  eye  must  see 
To  know  how  wonderful  this  world  can  be  ! 

But  lo, — the  last  tints  of  the  west  decline, 
And  night  falls  dewy  o'er  these  banks  of  pine. 
Among  the  reeds,  in  which  our  idle  boat 
Is  rock'd  to  rest,  the  wind's  complaining  note 
Dies  like  a  half-breath'd  whispering  of  flutes ; 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  33 

Along  the  wave  the  gleaming  porpoise  shoots, 

And  I  can  trace  him  like  a  watery  star 

Down  the  steep  current,  till  he  fades  afar 

Amid  the  foaming  breakers'  silvery  light. 

Where  yon  rough  rapids  spaikle  through  the  niglit. 

Here,  as  along  this  shadowy  bank  I  stray, 

And  the  smooth  glass-snake,  gliding  o'er  my  way, 

Shows  the  dim  moonlight  through  his  scaly  form. 

Fancy,  with  all  the  scene's  enchantment  warm. 

Hears  in  the  niui  niur  of  the  nightly  breeze 

Some  Indian  Spirit  warble  words  like  these : — 

From  the  land  beyond  the  sea, 
"Whither  hapj^y  spirits  flee; 
Where,  transform'd  to  sacred  doves, 
Many  a  blessed  Indian  roves 
Through  the  air  on  wing,  as  white 
As  those  wondrous  stones  of  light, 
Which  the  eye  of  morning  counts 
On  the  Apallachian  mounts, — 
Hither  oft  my  flight  I  take 
Over  Huron's  lucid  lake. 
Where  the  wave,  as  clear  as  dew, 
Sleeps  beneath  the  light  canoe. 
Which,  reflected,  floating  there. 
Looks  as  if  it  hung  in  air. 

His  Odes  and  Epistles  contain  descriptive  sketches  of 
scenery  as  remarkable  for  their  fidelity  to  nature  as  for 
their  poetical  beavity;  and  of  all  his  poetical  records  of 
this  tour,  none  are  so  exquisitely  lovely  as  the — 

CANADIAN   BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN   ON   THE    RIVER    ST.    LAWRENCE. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  pa]'ting  hymn. 


34  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Eow,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  Eapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl ; 
But,  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh  !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Eapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 

Utawas'  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle  !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favouring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Eapids  are  near  and  the  daylight's  past. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RETURN   TO   ENGLAND — DUEL — HIS   MARRIAGE — JEFFREY — 
ROGERS. 

Moore's  whole  absence  from  England  was  only  a  period 
of  fourteen  months,  and  from  what  he  saw  in  the  West, 
or  rather  from  what  he  could  not  find  there,  of  refinement 
in  social  life  and  the  aroma  of  society,  his  previous  ideas 
of  republican  government  were  considerably  modified. 

Through  Lord  Moira,  in  1806,  after  his  return,  he 
obtained  for  his  father  the  appointment  of  a  barrack- 
mastership  in  Dublin,  so  that  his  parent  was  now  enabled 
to  leave  the  counter. 

This  year,  anticipating  a  home  visit  to  Ireland,  he 
wrote  to  his  mother — 

"  I  think  in  about  a  fortnight  I  shall  take  flight  for  the  bogs. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  35 

Darling  mother !  bow  happy  I  shall  be  to  see  you ! — it  will 
put  a  new  spur  on  the  heel  of  my  heart,  which  will  make  life 
trot,  for  the  time  at  least,  sixteen  miles  an  hour.  I  trust  in 
heaven  that  you  are  recovering,  and  that  I  shall  find  you  as 
you  ought  to  be. — Ev^your  own,  Tom." 

Moore's  Odes  and  Epistles,  from  Avhich  we  have  already 
given  quotations,  appeared  in  1806.  Capt.  Basil  Hall 
vouches  for  the  accuracy  of  Moore's  description  of  Ber- 
muda, saying  that  it  is  "  the  most  pleasing  and  exact " 
he  knows.  However,  the  volume  was  very  severely 
handled  by  Jeffrey  in  The  Edinburgh  Review,  on  the  score 
of  its  occasional  questionable  morality;  and  Moore, 
irritated,  foolishly  sent  him  a  challenge.  The  combatants 
met  at  Chalk  Farm;  but  just  as  they  Avere  about  to  fire, 
the  police,  who  had  got  information  of  the  affair,  stepped 
in  and  put  a  stop  to  further  proceedings.  A  few  days 
after  this  the  mutual  friends  of  the  poet  and  the  critic 
contrived  a  meeting  between  them  as  if  by  accident.  An 
explanation  took  place;  Jeffrey  acknowledging  that  ho 
was  too  severe,  and  Moore  that  he  was  too  hot.  Moore, 
afterwards,  boasted  that,  in  the  most  severe  of  all  his 
critics,  he  had  found  the  most  cordial  of  his  friends;  and, 
in  later  years,  Jeffrey  wrote  thus  of  Moore : — "  He  has 
long  ago  redeemed  his  error;  in  all  his  latter  works  he 
appears  as  the  eloquent  champion  of  purity,  fidelity,  and 
delicacy,  not  less  than  of  justice,  liberty,  and  honour." 

On  the  ground,  where  the  duel  was  to  have  been 
fought,  it  was  found  by  the  seconds  that  one  of  the 
pistols  had  no  bullet.  A  report  got  abroad  that  Moore 
and  Jeffrey  fought  with  pistols  that  were  unloaded;  and 
Byron  sarcastically  commemorated  the  event  in  his 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  aiming  at  Jeffrey, 
to  whom  he  owed  a  deep  grudge,  rather  than  at  Moore, 
Byron's  lines  are  these : — 


36  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  Health  to  great  Jeffrey  !  Heaven  preserve  his  life 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  secret  in  his  future  wars 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars. 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day 
That  ever  glorious  almost  fatal  fray, 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye. 
And  Bow-street  myrmidons  stood  laughing  by?" 

However,  one  folly  begets  another,  and  Moore,  stung 
by  this  biting  sarcasm,  in  hot  blood  sent  Byron  a  chal- 
lenge; but,  fortunately,  matters  were  adjusted  by  mutual 
friends  without  a  hostile  meeting,  and  between  the 
would-be  combatants  there  was  formed  a  friendshi^j  that 
was  severed  only  by  death. 

In  1807  Moore  began  to  publish  The  Irish  Melodies, 
which  were  not,  however,  completed  till  1834.  He  fur- 
nished words  and  adapted  the  airs,  while  Sir  John  A, 
Stevenson  was  to  provide  the  accompaniments.  In  1808 
he  published  anonymously  two  poems,  Intolerance,  and 
Corruption;  and,  in  1809,  The  Sceptic — none  of  which  were 
very  successful.  "A  Letter  to  the  Eoman  Catholics  of 
Dublin"  appeared  in  1810. 

Of  authorship  he  wrote  to  Lady  Donegall,  on  January 
3,  1810: — "How  a  poor  author  is  puzzled  now-a-days 
between  quantity  and  quality!  The  booksellers  won't 
buy  him  if  the  former  be  not  great,  and  the  critics  won't 
let  him  be  read  if  the  latter  be  not  good.  Now,  there 
are  no  two  perfections  more  difficult  to  attain  together, 
for  they  are  generally  (as  we  little  men  would  wish  to 
establish)  in  inverse  proportion  to  each  other.  However, 
I  must  do  my  best." 

On  Lady-day,  in  March,  1811,  he  was  so  fortunate  as 
to  marry  Miss  Bessie  Dyke,  a  native  of  Kilkenny,  a 
charming   and   amiable   young   actress   of    considerable 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  37 

ability.  Their  house  was  at  York  Place,  Queen's  Elm, 
Brompton.  The  terrace  was  isolated,  and  opposite  nur- 
sery gardens.  Mrs.  Moore  was  very  domestic  in  her 
tastes,  and  possessed  much  energy  of  character,  tact,  and 
a  sound  judgment;  while  her  personal  appearance  was 
such  as  to  draw  from  Rogers  the  appellation  of  "the 
Psyche,"  by  which  name  he  continued  to  designate  her. 

To  her,  Lord  John  Russell  pays  the  following  well- 
deserved  tribute: — "The  excellence  of  his  wife's  moral 
character,  her  energy  and  courage,  her  persevering  econ- 
omy, made  her  a  better,  and  even  a  richer  partner  to 
Moore  than  an  heiress  of  ten  thousand  a  year  would  have 
been,  with  less  devotion  to  her  duty,  and  less  steadiness 
of  conduct."  He  also  adds,  that,  "from  the  year  of  his 
marriage  to  the  year  of  his  death,  his  excellent  and  beau- 
tiful wife  received  from  him  the  homage  of  a  lover." 

Of  her  personal  appearance  at  a  later  period  Mrs. 
Hall  says  : — "Her  figure  and  carriage  were  perfect;  every 
movement  was  graceful.  Her  head  and  throat  were 
exquisitely  moulded;  and  her  voice,  when  she  spoke, 
was  soft  and  clear,  .  .  .  soft  brown  eyes,  .  . 
features  really  beautiful;  the  delicate  nose;  the  sweet 
and  expressive  mouth;  the  dimples,  now  here,  now 
there;  the  chin  so  soft  and  rounded;  the  face  a  perfect 
oval.  Even  at  that  time,  no  one  could  have  entered  a 
room  without  murmuring,  'What  a  lovely  Avoman!'  " 

With  this  lovely  and  gentle  wife,  Moore,  to  quote  his 
own  words,  enjoyed  "perfect  happiness;"  and  the  story 
of  their  lives,  through  sunshine  and  gloom,  reads  like  a 
charming  idyll. 

In  the  autumn  of  1811,  31. P.,  or  the  Blue  Stochbig,  a 
comic  opera,  was  produced  on  the  stage.  It  was  a 
failure,  as  a  whole;  but  contained  some  beautiful  songs, 
such  as  "  Young  Love  Liv'd  Once  in  a  Humble  Shed," 


38  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  Spirit  of  Joy,  Thy  Altar  Lies,"  and  "  Though  Sacred 
the  Tie."     We  give  the  first  of  these: — 

SUSAN. 

Young  Love  liv'd  once  in  a  humble  shed, 

Where  roses  breathing. 

And  woodbines  wreathing 
Around  the  lattice  their  tendrils  spread, 
As  wild  and  sweet  as  the  life  he  led. 

His  garden  flourish'd, 

For  young  Hope  nourish'd 
The  infant  buds  with  beams  and  showers ; 
But  lips,  though  blooming,  must  still  be  fed, 

And  not  even  Love  can  live  on  flowers. 
Alas!  that  Poverty's  evil  eye 

Should  e'er  come  hither, 

Such  sweets  to  wither! 
The  flowers  laid  down  their  heads  to  die, 
And  Hope  fell  sick  as  the  witch  drew  nigh. 

She  came  one  morning, 

Ere  Love  had  warning, 
And  rais'd  the  latch,  where  the  young  god  lay ; 
"Oh  ho!"  said  Love — "is  it  yowl  good-bye;" 
So  he  oped  the  window,  and  flew  away! 


CHAPTER  V. 

MAYFIELD   COTTAGE — INDEPENDENT   SPIRIT — SATIRES. 

For  a  time  after  his  marriage  he  had  been  residing 
chiefly  with  Lord  Moira,  but,  in  the  spring  of  1812,  he 
took  a  cottage  at  Kegworth,  so  as  still  to  be  near  his 
friend's  residence,  and  yet  not  quite  dependent  on  him 
for  a  home;  but,   on  Lord  Moira  going  to   India,  he. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  39 

shortly  afterwards  in  the  summer  of  1813,  left  it  for 
Mayfield  Cottage,  near  Ashbourne,  in  Derbyshire. 

His  exchequer  sometimes  got  very  low. 

On  November  12,  1812,  he  Avrites  to  Mr.  Power,  the 
publisher  of  the  Irish  Melodies — 

"  My  Dear  Sir, — I  have  but  just  got  your  letter,  and  have 
only  time  to  say  that  if  you  can  let  me  have  but  three  or  four 
pounds  by  return  of  post,  you  will  oblige  me.  I  would  not 
have  made  this  hasty  and  imi:)ortunate  demand  on  you,  but  I 
liave  foolishly  let  myself  run  dry  without  trying  my  other 
resources,  and  I  have  been  the  week  past  literally  without  one 
sixpence.     Ever,  with  most  sincere  good-will,  the  penniless 

"  T.  M." 

Mr.  Power  at  once  sent  ten  pounds,  on  which,  Moore 
gives  him  the  following  explanation  of  why  he  had  to  be  so 
ungracious  as  send  "  such  a  hurried  and  begging  scrawl." 
"  The  truth  is,  we  have  been  kept  on  a  visit  at  a  house 
where  we  have  been  much  longer  than  I  wished  or  in- 
tended, and  simply  from  not  having  a  shilling  in  our 
pockets  to  give  the  servants  on  going  away.  So  I  know 
you  will  forgive  my  teasing  you.  .  .  .  You  may 
laugh  at  my  ridiculous  distress  in  being  kept  to  turtle 
eating  and  claret -drinking  longer  than  I  wish,  and 
merely  because  I  have  not  a  shilling  in  my  pocket — but 
however  paradoxical  it  sounds,  it  is  true." 

Travelling  from  a  scene  of  aristocratic  grandeur,  of 
which  they  had  become  weary,  they  longed  for  the  utmost 
simplicity,  retirement,  and  repose ;  and  determined  to 
take  the  very  first  suitable  place  of  the  kind  they  found 
vacant ;  and  they  fixed  upon  Mayfield  Cottage.  "  It 
was  a  poor  place,"  said  Moore  to  William  Howitt,  "  little 
better  than  a  barn,  but  we  at  once  took  it,  and  set  about 
making  it  habitable."  The  rent  he  paid  for  it  was  £20 
a  year.     In  front  there  is  a  small  flower-garden,  slightly 


40  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOOKJi). 

terraced,  and  a  path  leading  up  to  the  front  door  which 
has  a  simple  trellised  porch.  The  front  of  the  cottage  is 
partly  covered  with  greenery;  it  is  surrounded  by  trees; 
and  there  is  a  small  arbour  where  the  poet  used  to  sit 
and  write. 

The  right-hand  front  window  is  pointed  out  as  belong- 
ing to  Moore's  little  parlour;  the  window  at  the  side 
belonged  to  his  little  library.  Out  of  doors,  in  the 
orchard,  when  the  weather  admitted  of  it,  was  his 
favourite  study. 

The  immediate  neighbourhood  is  not  striking;  but 
Mayfield  lies  in  a  fine  country,  and  within  a  short  distance 
of  it  are  Dovedale — rendered  classic  by  old  Izaak  Walton 
and  Cotton — where  he  used  often  to  ramble  with  Bessie 
his  wife,  and  many  other  beautiful  scenes  in  Derbyshire 
and  Staffordshire.  There  were  many  persons  of  taste 
and  refinement  living  in  the  neighbourhood,  from  whom 
he  and  his  family  received  every  cordial  attention.  It 
was  then  "within  twenty-four  hours'  drive  of  town,"  i.e. 
Loudon.  Near  Mayfield  is  laid  the  scene  of  that  strik- 
ing modern  novel  Adam  Bede. 

Moore  was  much  courted  by  the  great,  and  mingled  with 
them  on  equal  terms;  for  he  possessed,  through  natural 
gifts  and  culture,  "a  richness  of  intellectual  accomplish- 
ment, a  capacity  of  mental  toil,  a  variety  of  curious 
learning,  a  brilliancy  of  wit,  and  i^ower  of  sarcasm  which 
bears  comparison  with  the  best  of  his  contemporaries." 
Of  independent  spirit,  when  in  serious  difficulties,  he 
often  set  aside  frankly  proff"ered  aid,  and  preferred  to 
help  himself — and  so  also  to  extend  aid  to  others. 

In  a  letter  written  to  Lady  Donegall,  in  1808,  he  wisely 
and  quaintly  says  of  Mayfield — "I  have  here  a  home 
where  I  can  live  at  but  little  expense,  and  I  have  a 
summer's  leisure  before  me  to  prepare  something  for  the 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  41 

next  campaign,  which  may  enable  me  to  look  down  upon 
my  enemies  without  entirely  looking  up  to  my  friends; 
for,  let  one  say  what  one  will,  looking  up  too  long  is 
tiresome,  let  the  subject  be  ever  so  grand  or  lovely — 
whether  the  statue  of  Venus  or  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul's." 

His  personal  friends  all  regarded  him  as  lovable, 
generous,  honourable,  manly  and  true. 

In  1812  appeared  The  Inte7xepted  Letters,  or  the  Two- 
penny Post  Bag,  by  Thomas  Brown,  the  Younger. 

Hazlitt,  after  slashing  at  some  of  his  better  and  more 
enduring  works,  says,  "  But  he  has  wit  at  will,  and  of 
the  first  quality.  His  satirical  and  burlesque  poetry  is 
his  best;  it  is  first-rate.  His  light,  agreeable,  and  polished 
style  pierces  through  the  body  of  the  court,  hits  off  the 
faded  graces  of  an  Adonis  of  fifty,  weighs  the  vanity  of 
fashion  in  tremulous  scales,  mimics  the  grimace  of 
affectation  and  folly,  shows  up  the  littleness  of  the  great, 
and  spears  a  phalanx  of  statesmen  with  its  glittering 
point  as  with  a  diamond."  "  In  The  Twopenny  Post  Bag, 
his  light  laughing  satire  attains  its  most  delicate  piquancy." 
Of  it  Byron  wrote,  "  By-the-bye,  what  humour — what — 
everything  in  the  Post  Bag!" 

The  wit,  pungency,  and  playfulness  of  these  satires, 
chiefly  aimed  at  the  Prince  Regent  and  his  ministers, 
made  them  immensely  popular,  and  fourteen  editions 
were  called  for  in  the  course  of  one  year. 

Having  been  accused  of  ingratitude  for  quizzing  roy- 
alty, he  himself  has  been  careful  to  leave  on  record  the 
actual  amount  of  royal  patronage  which  he  had  received. 
The  passage  referred  to  occurs  in  the  preface  to  his  thiixl 
volume,  and  is  to  the  following  effect: — "Luckily,  the  list 
of  the  benefits  showered  upon  me  from  that  high  quarter 
may  be  despatched  in  a  few  sentences.  At  the  request 
of  the  Earl  of  IMoira,  one  of  my  caiiiest  and  best  friends, 


42  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

His  Royal  Highness  graciously  permitted  me  to  dedicate 
to  him  my  Translation  of  the  Odes  of  Anacreon.  I  was 
twice,  I  think,  admitted  to  the  honour  of  dining  at  Carl- 
ton House;  and  when  the  Prince,  on  his  being  made 
Regent  in  1811,  gave  his  memorable  fete,  I  was  one  of 
the  crowd — about  1500,  I  believe,  in  number — Avho  en- 
joyed the  privilege  of  being  his  guests  on  the  occasion. 
.  .  .  But,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  taste  or 
prudence  of  some  of  these  satires,  there  exists  no  longer, 
I  apprehend,  much  difference  of  opinion  respecting  the 
character  of  the  royal  personage  against  whom  they  were 
aimed.  Already,  indeed,  has  the  stern  verdict  which  the 
voice  of  History  cannot  but  pronounce  upon  him  been 
in  some  degree  anticipated." 

"  The  obligation,"  it  has  been  remarked,  "  was  certain- 
ly not  overj)owering,  especially  when  the  country  had  to 
pay  for  it." 

From  The  Twopenny  Post  Bag,  we  give  the  following 
extracts,  which,  relating  to  the  current  topics  of  that  day, 
were  then  well  understood : — 

LETTEE  I. 

FROM  THE  PR — NC — SS  CH — RL — E  OF  W — L — S  TO  THE  LADY 
B— RB — A  ASHL — Y, 

My  dear  Lady  Bab,  you'll  be  shock'd,  I'm  afraid, 

When  you  hear  the  sad  rumpus  your  Ponies  have  made ; 

Since  the  time  of  horse-consuls  (now  long  out  of  date), 

No  nags  ever  made  such  a  stir  in  the  state. 

Lord  Eld — n  first  heard — and  as  instantly  pray'd  he 

To  "God  and  his  King" — that  a  Popish  young  Lady 

(For  though  you've  bright  eyes  and  twelve  thousand  a  year. 

It  is  still  but  too  true  you're  a  Paj^ist,  my  dear,) 

Had  insidiously  sent,  by  a  tall  Irish  groom. 

Two  priest-ridden  Ponies,  just  landed  from  Rome, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  43 

And  so  full,  little  rogues,  of  pontifical  tricks, 

That  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  was  scarce  safe  from  their  kicks. 

Off  at  once  to  Papa,  in  a  fliirry  he  flies — 
For  Papa  always  does  what  these  statesmen  advise, 
On  condition  that  they'll  be,  in  tui-n,  so  polite 
As  in  no  case  whate'er  to  advise  him  too  right — 
"  Pretty  doings  ai-e  here,  sir,"  (he  angrily  cries, 
While  by  dint  of  dark  eyebrows  he  strives  to  look  wise) — 
"  'Tis  a  scheme  of  the  Eomanists,  so  help  me  God! 
To  ride  over  your  most  Eoyal  Highness  roughshod — 
Excuse,  sir,  my  tears — they're  from  loyalty's  soui'ce — 
Bad  enough  'twas  for  Troy  to  be  sack'd  by  a  Horse, 
But  for  us  to  be  ruin'd  by  Ponies  still  worse ! " 
Quick  a  Council  is  call'd — the  whole  Cabinet  sits— 
The  Archbishoi^s  declare,  frighten'd  out  of  their  wits, 
That  if  once  Popish  Ponies  should  eat  at  my  manger, 
From  that  awful  moment  the  Church  is  in  danger! 
As,  give  them  but  stabling,  and  shortly  no  stalls 
Will  suit  their  proud  stomachs  but  those  at  St.  Paul's. 

The  Doctor,  and  he,  the  devout  man  of  Leather, 
V — ns — tt — t,  now  laying  their  Saint-heads  together, 
Declare  that  these  skittish  young  a-bominations 
Are  clearly  foretold  in  Chap.  vi.  Revelations — 
Nay,  they  verily  think  they  could  point  out  the  one 
Which  the  Doctor's  friend  Death  was  to  canter  upon. 

Lord  H — rr— by,  hoping  that  no  one  imputes 
To  the  Court  any  fancy  to  persecute  brutes, 
Protests,  on  the  word  of  himself  and  his  cronies, 
That  had  these  said  creatiires  been  Asses,  not  Ponies, 
•  The  Court  would  have  started  no  sort  of  objection. 
As  Asses  were,  there,  always  sure  of  protection. 

"  If  the  Pr — nc — ss  will  keep  them  (says  Lord  C — stl— 
r— gh), 
To  make  them  quite  harmless,  the  only  true  way 
Is  (as  certain  Chief  Justices  do  with  their  wives) 
To  flog  them  within  half  an  inch  of  their  lives. 
4 


44  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

If  they've  any  bad  Irish  blood  lurking  about, 
This  (he  knew  by  experience)  would  soon  draw  it  out." 
Should  this  be  thought  cruel,  his  Lordship  proposes 
"The  new  Veto  snaffle  to  bind  down  their  noses — 
A  pretty  contrivance,  made  out  of  old  chains, 
Which  appears  to  indulge,  while  it  doubly  restrains; 
Which,  however  high-mettled,  their  gamesomeness  checks 
(Adds  his  Lordship  humanely)  or  else  breaks  their  necks!" 

This  proposal  receiv'd  pretty  general  applause 
From  the  statesmen  around — and  the  neck-breaking  clause 
Had  a  vigour  about  it,  which  soon  reconcil'd 
Even  Eld — n  himself  to  a  measure  so  mild. 
So  the  snaffles,  my  dear,  were  agreed  to,  nem.  con., 
And  my  Lord  C — stl — r — gh,  having  so  often  shone 
In  the  fettering  line,  is  to  buckle  them  on. 

I  shall  drive  to  3^our  door  in  these  Vetos  some  day, 
But,  at  present,  adieu !  — I  must  hurry  away 
To  go  see  my  Mamma,  as  I'm  suffer'd  to  meet  her 
For  just  half  an  hour  by  the  Qu — n's  best  repeater. 

Ch — RL — TTE. 

LETTER  V. 

FROM   THE   COUNTESS    DOWAGER   OF   C — RK   TO   LADY . 

My  dear  Lady !  I've  been  just  sending  out 

About  five  hundred  cards  for  a  snug  little  Eout — 

(By-the-bye,  you've  seen  Eokeby  ? — this  moment  got  mine — 

The  Mail-Coach  Edition — prodigiously  fine;) 

But  I  can't  conceive  how,  in  this  very  cold  weather, 

I'm  ever  to  bring  my  five  hundred  together ; 

As,  unless  the  thermometer's  near  boiling  heat. 

One  can  never  get  half  of  one's  hundreds  to  meet. 

(Apropos — you'd  have  laugh'd  to  see  Townsend  last  night, 

Escort  to  their  chair,  with  his  staff,  so  polite, 

The  "  three  maiden  Miseries,"  all  in  a  fright ; 

Poor  Townsend,  like  Mercury,  filling  two  ])Qsts, 

Supervisor  of  thieves,  and  chief-usher  oi ghosts!) 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  45 

But,  my  dear  Lady ,  cau't  you  hit  on  some  notion, 

At  least  for  one  night  to  set  London  in  motion? — 
As  to  having  the  R — g — nt,  that  show  is  gone  by — 
Besides,  IVe  remark'd  that  (between  you  and  I) 
The  Marchesa  and  he,  inconvenient  in  more  ways. 
Have  taken  much  lately  to  whispering  in  doorways ; 
"Which — consid'ring,  you  know,  dear,  the  size  of  the  two — 
Makes  a  block  that  one's  company  cannot  get  through ; 
And  a  house  such  as  mine  is,  with  doorways  so  small, 
Has  no  room  for  such  cumbersome  love-work  at  all. — 
(Apropos,  though,  of  love- work — you've  heard  it,  I  hoi)e, 
That  Napoleon's  old  mother's  to  marry  the  Pope, — 
What  a  comical  pair!) — but,  to  stick  to  my  Rout, 
'Twill  be  hard  if  some  novelty  can't  be  struck  out. 
Is  thei'e  no  Algerine,  or  Kamchatkan  arriv'd? 
No  Plenijjo  Pacha,  three-tail'd  and  ten-wiv'd] 
No  Russian,  whose  dissonant  consonant  name 
Almost  rattles  to  fragments  the  trumpet  of  fame? 

I  remember  the  time,  three  or  four  winters  back. 
When — provided  their  wigs  were  but  decently  black — 
A  few  Patriot  monsters,  from  Spain,  were  a  sight 
That  would  people  one's  house  for  one,  night  after  night. 
But — whether  the  Ministers  paiv'd  them  too  much — 
(And  you  know  how  they  spoil  whatsoever  they  touch) 
Or  whether  Lord  G — rge  (the  young  man  about  town) 
Has,  by  dint  of  bad  poetry,  written  them  down, 
One  has  certainly  lost  one's  peninsular  rage ; 
And  the  only  stray  Patriot  seen  for  an  age 
Has  been  at  such  places  (think,  how  the  fit  cools!) 
As  old  Mrs.  V — gh — n's  or  Lord  L — v — rp — I's. 

But,  in  short,  my  dear,  names  like  Wintztschitstopschin- 
zoudhoft" 
Are  the  only  things  now  make  an  ev'ning  go  smooth  off; 
So,  get  me  a  Russian — till  death  I'm  your  debtor — 
If  he  brings  the  whole  Alphabet,  so  much  the  better. 
And — Lord!  if  he  would  but,  in  character,  sup 
Off  his  fish-oil  and  candles,  he'd  quite  set  me  up ! 


46  LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Au  revoir,  my  sweet  giii — I  must  leave  you  in  haste — 
Little  Gunter  has  brought  me  the  Liqueurs  to  taste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

By-the-bye,  have  you  found  any  friend  that  can  construe 
That  Latin  account,  t'other  day,  of  a  Monster  ? 
If  we  can't  get  a  Russian,  and  that  thing  in  Latin 
Be  not  too  improper,  I  think  I'll  bring  that  in. 

INCLOSUEE 

IN  LETTER  FROM  ABDALLAH,  IN  LONDON,  TO  MOHASSAN,  IN 
ISPAHAN. 

The  tender  Gazel  I  inclose 
Is  for  my  love,  my  Syrian  Eose — 
Take  it  when  night  begins  to  fall, 
And  throw  it  o'er  her  mother's  wall. 

GAZEL. 

Eememberest  thou  the  hour  we  past, — 
That  hour  the  happiest  and  the  last '? 
Oh!  not  so  sweet  the  Siha  thorn 
To  summer  bees,  at  break  of  morn. 
Not  half  so  sweet,  through  dale  and  dell, 
To  Camels'  ears  the  tinkling  bell, 
As  is  the  soothing  memory 
Of  that  one  precious  hour  to  me. 

How  can  we  live,  so  far  apart  ? 

Oh !  why  not  rather,  heart  to  heart, 

United  live  and  die — 
Like  those  sweet  birds,  that  fly  together. 

As  of  j)ermanent  and  more  general  interest  now-a-days, 
than  old  almanack  squibs,  we  quote,  from  the  same  source, 
Moore's  "  Lines  addressed  to  Leigh  Hunt  and  his 
Brother,"  who  were  tried  and  imprisoned  for  speaking 
somewhat  too  truthfully  regarding  the  Prince  Regent : — 

"  Go  to  your  prisons — tliough  the  air  of  Spring 
No  mountain  coolness  to  your  cheeks  shall  bring; 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  47 

Though  Summer  flowers  shall  pass  unseeu  away, 
And  all  your  portion  of  the  glorious  day 
May  be  some  solitary  beam  that  falls, 
At  morn  or  eve,  upon  your  dreary  walls — 
Some  beam  that  enters,  trembling  as  if  aw'd, 
To  tell  how  gay  the  young  world  laughs  abroad ! 
Yet  go — for  thoughts  as  blessed  as  the  air 
Of  Spring  or  Summer  flowers  await  you  there; 
Thoughts,  such  as  He,  who  feasts  his  courtly  crew 
In  rich  conservatories,  never  knew  ; 
Pure  self-esteem — the  smiles  that  light  within — 
The  Zeal,  whose  circling  charities  begin 
With  the  few  lov'd  ones  Heaven  has  plac'd  it  near, 
And  spread,  till  all  Mankind  are  in  its  sphere ; 
The  Pride,  that  suifers  without  vaunt  or  plea, 
And  the  fresh  Spirit,  that  can  warble  free, 
Through  prison-bars,  its  hymn  to  Liberty!" 

"The  course  of  politics,"  says  Lord  John  Eussell,  "led 
him  into  the  composition  of  political  squibs  of  various 
merit.  The  'Vision  in  the  Court  of  Chancery,'  'The 
Slave,'  the  *  Breadfruit  Tree,'  and  many  more  are  replete 
with  sense  and  feeling  as  Avell  as  wit." 

Moore's  satirical  and  humorous  productions  are,  ad- 
mittedly, equal  to  anything  of  the  kind  in  the  language, 
and  in  them  his  peculiar  abilities  are  exhibited  to  the 
best  advantage.  From  the  remainder  of  these  we  select 
the  following: — 

DIALOGUE   BETWEEN  A   SOVEREIGN  AND 
A  ONE   POUND   NOTE. 

Said  a  Sov'reign  to  a  Note, 
In  the  pocket  of  my  coat. 
Where  they  met  in  a  neat  purse  of  leather, 
"  How  happens  it,  I  prithee, 
That,  though  I'm  wedded  with  thee, 
Fair  Pound,  we  can  never  live  together? 


48  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

"  Like  your  sex,  fond  of  change, 

With  silver  you  can  range, 
And  of  lots  of  young  sixpences  be  mother ; 

While  with  me — upon  my  word, 

Not  ray  Lady  and  my  Lord 
Of  W— stm — th  see  so  little  of  each  other ! " 

The  indignant  Note  replied 
(Lying  crumpled  by  his  side), 
"  Shame,  shame,  it  is  yourself  that  roam,  sir — 
One  cannot  look  askance, 
But,  whip !  you're  off  to  France, 
Leaving  nothing  but  old  rags  at  home,  sir. 

"  Your  scampering  began 
From  the  moment  Parson  Van, 
Poor  man,  made  us  one  in  Love's  fetter; 
'  For  better  or  for  worse ' 
Is  the  usual  marriage  curse, 
But  ours  is  all  '  worse '  and  no  '  better,' 

"  In  vain  are  laws  pass'd, 
There's  nothing  holds  you  fast, 

Tho'  you  know,  sweet  Sovereign,  I  adore  you — 
At  the  smallest  hint  in  life. 
You  forsake  your  lawful  wife, 

As  other  Sovereigns  did  before  you. 

"  I  flirt  with  Silver,  true — 

But  what  can  ladies  do, 
When  disown'd  by  their  natural  protectors? 

And  as  to  falsehood,  stuff! 

I  shall  soon  be  false  enough, 
When  I  get  among  those  wicked  Bank  Directors." 

The  Sovereign,  smiling  on  her, 

Now  swore,  upon  his  honour. 
To  be  henceforth  domestic  and  loyal ; 

But  within  an  liour  or  two. 

Why — I  sold  him  to  a  Jew, 
And  he's  now  at  No.  10  Palais  Eoyal. 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  49 

THE   IRISH   SLAVE. 

I  heard,  as  I  lay,  a  wailing  sound, 
"  He  is  dead — he  is  dead,"  the  rumour  flew ; 
And  I  rais'd  my  chain,  and  turu'd  me  round. 

And  ask'd,  through  the  dungeoii-window,  "Who?" 

I  saw  my  livid  tormentors  pass ; 

Their  grief  'twas  bliss  to  hear  and  see  ! 
For,  never  came  joy  to  them,  alas ! 

That  didn't  bi'ing  deadly  bane  to  me. 

Eager  I  look'd  through  the  mist  of  night, 

And  ask'd,  "What  foe  of  my  race  hath  died] 

Is  it  he — that  Doubter  of  law  and  right. 

Whom  nothing  but  wrong  could  e'er  decide — 

Who,  long  as  he  sees  but  wealth  to  win, 

Hath  never  yet  felt  a  qualm  or  doubt 
What  suitors  for  justice  he'd  keep  in, 

Or  what  suitoi's  for  freedom  he'd  shut  out — 

"  Who,  a  clog  for  ever  on  Truth's  advance, 

Haugs  round  her  (like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
Eound  Sinbad's  neck),  nor  leaves  a  chance 
Of  shaking  him  off — is't  he  I  is't  he?" 

Ghastly  my  grim  tormentors  smil'd, 

And  thrusting  me  back  to  my  den  of  woe, 

With  a  laughter  even  more  fierce  and  wild 
Than  their  funeral  howling,  answer'd  "  No." 

But  the  cry  still  pierced  my  prison-gate. 
And  again  I  ask'd,  "What  scourge  is  gone? 

Is  it  he — that  Chief,  so  coldly  great. 
Whom  Fame  unwillingly  shines  upon — 

"  Whose  name  is  one  of  the  ill-omen'd  words. 
They  link  with  hate,  on  his  native  plains ; 
And  why? — they  lent  him  hearts  and  swords, 
And  he  in  return  gave  scoffs  and  chains ! 


50  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  Is  it  he?  is  it  hel "  I  loud  inquir'd, 

When  hark ! — there  sounded  a  Eoyal  knell; 
And  I  knew  what  sjoirit  had  just  expir'd, 
And,  slave  as  I  was,  my  triumph  fell. 

He  had  pledg'd  a  hate  unto  me  and  mine. 

He  had  left  to  the  future  nor  hope  nor  choice, 

But  seal'd  that  hate  with  a  Name  Divine, 

And  he  now  was  dead,  and — I  couldn't  rejoice ! 

He  had  fann'd  afresh  the  burning  brands 
Of  a  bigotry  waxing  cold  and  dim ; 

He  had  arm'd  anew  my  torturers'  hands. 
And  the7n  did  I  curse — but  sigh'd  for  him. 

For  his  was  the  error  of  head,  not  heart; 

And — oh,  how  beyond  the  ambushed  foe, 
Who  to  enmity  adds  the  traitor's  part. 

And  carries  a  smile,  with  a  curse  below ! 

If  ever  a  heart  made  bright  amends 
For  the  fatal  fault  of  an  erring  head — 

Go,  learn  his  fame  from  the  lips  of  friends, 
In  the  ori^han's  tear  be  his  glory  read. 

A  Prince  without  pride,  a  man  without  guile. 
To  the  last  unchanging,  warm,  sincere, 

For  Worth  he  had  ever  a  hand  and  smile, 
And  for  Misery  ever  his  purse  and  tear. 

Touch'd  to  the  heart  by  that  solemn  toll, 
I  calmly  sunk  in  my  chains  again ; 

While,  still  as  I  said,  "  Heaven  rest  his  soul ! " 
My  mates  of  the  dungeon  sigh'd  "Amen  !  " 

A  VISION. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   CHRISTABEL. 

"  Up !  "  said  the  Spirit,  and,  ere  I  could  pray 
One  hasty  orison,  whirl'd  me  away 
To  a  Limbo,  lying — I  wist  not  where — 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  51 

Above  or  below,  in  eaith  or  air; 
For  it  glimmei''d  o'er  with  a  douhtfuv  ..o-ht, 
One  couldn't  say  whether  'twas  day  or  night; 
And  'twas  crost  by  many  a  mazy  track, 
One  didn't  know  how  to  get  on  or  back ; 
And  I  felt  like  a  needle  that's  going  astray 
(With  its  one  eye  out)  through  a  bundle  of  bay; 
When  the  Spirit  he  grinn'd,  and  whisper'd  me, 
"  Thou'rt  now  in  the  Court  of  Chancery ! " 

Around  me  flitted  unnumber'd  swarms 
Of  shapeless,  bodiless,  tailless  forms ; 
(Like  bottled-up  babes,  that  grace  the  room 
Of  that  worthy  knight,  Sir  Everard  Home) — • 
All  of  them,  things  half-kill'd  in  rearing ; 
Some  were  lame — some  wanted  hearing ; 
Some  had  thi'ough  half  a  century  I'un, 
Though  they  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  upon. 
Others,  more  merry,  as  just  beginning. 
Around  on  &  point  of  law  were  spinning; 
Or  balanc'd  aloft,  'twixt  Bill  and  Answer, 
Lead  at  each  end,  like  a  tight-rope  dancer. 
Some  were  so  cross  that  nothing  could  please  'em  ;^ 
Some  gulph'd  down  affi,daviis  to  ease  'em ; — 
All  were  in  motion,  yet  never  a  one. 
Let  it  move  as  it  might,  could  ever  move  on. 
"  These,"  said  the  Spirit,  "  you  plainly  see. 
Are  what  they  call  suits  in  Chancery  !" 
I  heard  a  loud  screaming  of  old  and  young. 
Like  a  chorus  by  fifty  Vellutis  sung ; 
Or  an  Irish  Dump  ("  the  words  by  Moore  ") 
At  an  amateur  concert  scream'd  in  score ; 
So  harsh  on  my  ears  that  wailing  fell 
Of  the  wretches  who  in  this  Limbo  dwell ! 
It  seem'd  like  the  dismal  symphony 
Of  the  shapes  ^ueas  in  hell  did  see ; 
Or  those  frogs,  whose  legs  a  barbarous  cook 
Cut  off,  and  left  the  frogs  in  the  brook, 


52  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

To  cry  all  uiglit,  till  life's  last  dregs, 
"  Give  us  our  legs  ! — give  us  our  legs !  " 

Toucli'd  with  the  sad  and  sorrowful  scene, 

I  ask'd  wliat  all  this  yell  might  mean, 

"When  the  Spirit  replied,  with  a  grin  of  glee, 
"  'Tis  the  ciy  of  the  Suitors  in  Chancery  ! " 

I  look'd,  and  I  saw  a  wizard  rise, 

With  a  wig  like  a  cloud  before  men's  eyes. 

In  his  aged  hand  he  held  a  wand, 

Whei-ewith  he  beckon'd  his  embryo  band, 

And  they  niov'd  and  mov'd,  as  he  wav'd  it  o'er 

But  they  never  got  on  one  inch  the  more. 

And  still  they  kept  limi)ing  to  and  fro. 

Like  Ariels  round  old  Prospero — ■ 

Saying,  "  Dear  master,  let  us  go," 

But  still  old  Prospero  answer'd  "No." 

And  I  heard,  the  while,  that  wizard  elf 

Muttering,  muttering  spells  to  himself, 

While  o'er  as  many  old  papers  he  turn'd, 

As  Hume  e'er  mov'd  for,  or  Omar  burn'd. 

He  talk'd  of  his  virtue — "  though  some,  less  nice, 

(He  own'd  with  a  sigh)  preferr'd  his  Vice" — 

And  he  said,  "  I  think  "— "  I  doubt "— "  I  hope," 

Call'd  God  to  witness,  and  damn'd  the  Pope  ; 

With  many  more  sleights  of  tongue  and  hand 

I  couldn't,  for  the  soul  of  me,  understand. 

Amaz'd  and  pos'd,  I  was  just  about 

To  ask  his  name,  when  the  screams  without, 

The  merciless  clack  of  the  imps  within, 

And  that  conjuror's  mutterings,  made  such  a  din, 

That,  startled,  I  woke — leap'd  up  in  my  bed — 

Found  the  Spirit,  the  imps,  and  the  conjuror  fled, 

And  bless'd  my  stars,  right  pleas'd  to  see, 

That  I  wasn't,  as  yet,  in  Chancery. 

In  1814  Jeffrey  wrote  Rogers  to  ask  Moore  to  con- 
tribute to  the  Edinburgh  Bevieiv,  stating  that  the  usual 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOOKK.  53 

terms  were  twenty  guineas  a  printed  sheet  of  sixteen 
pages,  but  that  he  Avould  not  in  this  case  think  of  offering 
less  than  thirty,  and  probably  a  good  deal  more.  All 
this  matter  he  left  entirely  to  Eoger's  delicacy  and  dis- 
cretion, and  Moore  felt  flattered  by  the  proposal,  and 
reciprocated  the  friendly  feeling  by  becoming  a  con- 
tributor.    Shortly  afterwards,  Jeffrey  wrote  Moore — 

"  Tell  me,  too,  that  you  will  come  for  a  fortnight  to  Edin- 
burgh early  next  winter  and  see  our  primitive  society  here. 
It  is  but  thirty  hours'  travelling,  and  will  at  least  be  some- 
thing to  laugh  at  in  London,  and  to  describe  at  May  field. 
We  shall  treat  you  very  honourably,  and  let  you  do  whatever 
3'ou  jilease.     Ever  most  truly  yours,  F.  Jeffrey." 

The  following  letter  from  Samuel  Eogers,  belonging 
to  this  period,  is  well  worthy  of  preservation : — 

"Venice,  October  17,  1814. 
"My  Dear  Moore, — Last  night  in  my  gondola  I  made  a 
vow  I  would  write  you  a  letter  if  it  was  only  to  beg  you 
would  write  to  me  at  Rome.  Like  the  great  Marco  Polo, 
however,  whose  tomb  I  saw  to-day,  I  have  a  sacred  wish  to 
astonish  you  with  my  travels,  and  would  take  you  with  me, 
as  you  would  not  go  willingly,  from  London  to  Paris,  and 
from  Paris  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  so  on  to  this  city 
of  romantic  adventure,  the  place  from  which  he  started.  I 
set  out  in  August  last  with  my  sister  and  Mackintosh.  He 
parted  with  us  in  Switzerland,  since  which  time  we  have 
tia veiled  on  together ;  and  hapjiy  should  we  have  been  could 
you  and  Psyche  have  made  a  quartette  of  it.  I  hope  all  her 
predictions  have  long  ago  been  fulfilled  to  your  mind,  and  that 
she  and  you  and  the  bambini  are  all  as  snug  and  as  happy  as 
you  can  wish  to  be.  By  the  way,  I  forgot  one  of  your  family 
wJio,  I  hope,  is  still  under  your  roof.  I  mean  one  of  nine 
sisters — the  one  I  have  more  than  once  made  love  to.  With 
another  of  them,  too,  all  the  woi^ld  knows  your  good  fortune. 
.    ,     ,     But  to  proceed  to  business : — 


54  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"Chamouni  and  the  Mer  de  Glace,  Voltaire's  chamber  at 
Ferney,  Gibbon's  terrace  at  Lausanne,  Eousseau's  Isle  of  St. 
PieiTe,  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  and  the  little  cantons,  the 
passage  over  the  Alps,  the  Lago  Maggiore,  Milan,  Verona, 
Padua,  Venice, — what  shall  I  begin  with?  But  I  believe  I 
must  refer  you  to  my  three  quartos  on  the  subject  whenever 
they  choose  to  aj^pear.  The  most  wonderful  thing  we  have 
seen  is  Bonaparte's  road  over  the  Alps — as  smooth  as  that  in 
Hyde  Park,  and  not  steeper  than  St.  James's  Street.  We  left 
Savoy  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  slept  at  Domo  d'Ossola,  in 
Italy,  that  night.  For  twenty  miles  we  descended  through  a 
mountain-pass,  as  rocky,  and  often  narrower,  than  the  narrowest 
part  of  Dovedale ;  the  road  being  sometimes  cut  out  of  the 
mountain,  and  three  times  carried  through  it,  leaving  the 
torrent  (and  such  a  torrent !)  to  work  its  way  by  itself.  The 
passages,  or  galleries,  as  I  believe  the  French  engineers  call 
them,  were  so  long  as  to  require  large  openings  here  and  there 
for  light;  and  the  roof  was  hung  with  icicles,  which  the 
carriage  shattered  as  it  passed  along,  and  which  fell  to  the 
ground  with  a  shrill  sound.  We  were  eight  hours  in  climbing 
to  the  tojD,  and  only  three  in  descending.  Our  wheel  was 
never  locked,  and  our  horses  were  almost  always  in  a  gallop. 
But  I  must  talk  to  you  a  little  about  Venice.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  I  felt  when  the  postillion  turned  gaily  round,  and, 
pointing  with  his  whip,  cried  out  'Venezia!'  For  there  it 
was,  sure  enough,  with  its  long  line  of  domes  and  turrets 
glittering  in  the  sun.  1  walk  about  here  all  day  long  in  a 
dream.  Is  that  the  Rial  to?  I  say  to  myself.  Is  this  St. 
Mark's  Place?  Do  I  see  the  Adriatic?  I  think  if  you  and  I 
were  together  here,  my  dear  Moore,  we  might  manufacture 
something  fi'om  the  jionte  dei  sospiri,  the  scala  dei  giganti,  the 
jjiombi,  the  pozzi,  and  the  thousand  ingredients  of  mystery 
and  terror  that  are  here  at  every  turn. 

"Nothing  can  be  more  luxiuious  than  a  gondola  and  its 
little  black  cabin,  in  which  you  can  fly  about  unseen,  the  gon- 
doliers so  silent  all  the  while.  They  dip  their  oars  as  if  they 
were  afraid  of  disturbing  you ;  yet  you  fly.  As  you  are 
rowed  through  one  of  the  narrow  streets,  often  do  you  catch 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE,  55 

the  notes  of  a  guitar,  accompanied  by  a  female  voice,  through 
some  open  window ;  and  at  night,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  how 
amusing  it  is  to  observe  the  moving  lights  (every  gondola  has 
its  light),  one  now  and  then  shooting  across  at  a  little  distance, 
and  vanishing  into  a  smaller  canal.  .  .  .  This  is  indeed  a 
fairy  land,  and  Venice  particularly  so.  If  at  Naples  you  see 
most  with  the  eye,  and  at  Rome  with  the  memory,  surely  at 
Venice  you  see  most  with  the  imagination.  But  enough  of 
Venice.  To-morrow  we  bid  adieu  to  it, — most  probably  I  shall 
never  see  it  again.  We  shall  pass  through  Ferrara  to  Bologna, 
then  cross  the  Apennines  to  Florence,  and  so  on  to  Rome, 
where  I  shall  look  for  a  line  from  you.     .     .     . 

"  Tell  Lady  D.  I  passed  the  little  Lake  of  Lowertz,  and  saw 
the  melancholy  effects  of  the  downfall.  It  is  now  a  scene  of 
desolation,  and  the  little  town  of  Goldau  is  buried  many 
fathoms  deep.  It  is  a  sad  story,  and  you  shall  have  it  when 
we  meet.  I  received  a  very  kind  letter  from  her  at  Tun- 
bridge,  and  mean  to  answer  it.  I  hope  to  meet  you  in 
London-town,  when  you  visit  it  next ;  at  least  I  shall  endea- 
vour to  do  so.  My  sister  unites  with  me  in  kindest  remem- 
brance to  Mrs.  Moore;  and  pray,  pray  believe  me  to  be.  Yours 
ever,  S.  E." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

LALLA  ROOKH. 

Moore,  in  the  preface  to  tlie  twentieth  edition  of 
Lalla  Rookh,  gives  the  following  interesting  account  of 
its  origin  and  progress: — "It  was  about  the  year  1812 
that,  impelled  far  more  by  the  encouraging  suggestions  of 
friends  than  impelled  by  any  promptings  of  my  own 
ambition,  I  was  induced  to  attempt  a  poem  upon  some 
oriental  subject,  and  of  those  quarto  dimensions  which 
Scott's  late  triumphs  in  that  form  had  then  rendered  the 


56  LIFE   SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

regular  poetical  standard.  A  negotiation  on  the  subject 
was  opened  with  the  Messrs.  Longman  in  the  same  year, 
but,  from  some  causes  which  have  now  escaped  my  recol- 
lection, led  to  no  decisive  result ;  nor  was  it  till  a  year 
or  two  after,  that  any  further  steps  were  taken  in  the 
matter — their  house  being  the  only  one,  it  is  right  to 
add,  with  which,  from  first  to  last,  I  held  any  communi- 
cation on  the  subject. 

"  On  this  last  occasion  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Perry, 
kindly  offered  to  lend  me  the  aid  of  his  advice  and  pre- 
sence in  the  interview  which  I  was  about  to  hold  with  the 
Messrs.  Longman,  for  the  arrangement  of  our  mutual  terms; 
and  what,  with  the  friendly  zeal  of  my  negotiator  on 
the  one  side,  and  the  prompt  and  liberal  spirit  with  which 
he  was  met  on  the  other,  there  has  seldom  occurred 
any  transaction  in  which  trade  and  poesy  have  shone 
out  so  advantageously  in  each  other's  eyes.  The  short  dis- 
cussion that  then  took  place  between  the  two  parties  may 
be  compressed  into  a  very  few  sentences.  'I  am  of  opinion,' 
said  Mr.  Perry — enforcing  his  view  of  the  case  by  argu 
ments  which  it  is  not  for  me  to  cite — '  that  Mr.  Moore 
ought  to  receive  for  his  poem  the  largest  price  that  has 
been  given  in  our  day  for  such  a  work.'  '  That  was,' 
answered  the  Messrs.  Longman, '  three  thousand  guineas.' 
'Exactly  so,'  replied  Mr.  Perry,  'and  no  less  a  sum  ought 
he  to  receive.' 

"  It  was  then  objected,  and  very  reasonably,  on  the  part 
of  the  firm,  that  they  had  never  yet  seen  a  single  line  of 
the  poem,  and  that  a  perusal  of  the  work  ought  to  be 
sent  to  them  before  they  embarked  on  so  large  a  sum  in 
the  purchase.  But  no; — the  romantic  view  which  my 
friend,  Mr.  Perry,  took  of  the  matter  was  that  this  price 
should  be  given  as  a  tribute  to  reputation  already 
acquired,  without  any  condition  for  a  previous  perusal  of 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  57 

the  new  work.  This  high  tone,  I  must  confess,  not  a  little 
startled  and  alarmed  me ;  but,  to  the  honour  and  glory  of 
Romance — as  well  on  the  publisher's  side  as  the  poet's — 
this  very  generous  view  of  the  transaction  was,  without 
any  difficulty,  acceded  to,  and  the  firm  agreed,  before  we 
separated,  that  I  was  to  receive  three  thousand  guineas 
for  my  poem." 

The  Messrs.  Longman  having  thus  arranged  to  give 
him  three  thousand  guineas  for  a  poetical  work  of  which 
they  had  not  seen  a  single  line,  Moore  determined  not  to 
disappoint  the  trust  placed  in  him.  The  following  letters 
fixed  the  matter: — 

"To  Messrs.  Longman  &  Co.  London,  Dec.  17,  1814. 

"  Dear  Sirs, — I  liave  taken  our  conversation  of  yesterday  into 
consideration,  and  the  following  are  the  terms  which  I  pro- 
j)ose  : — 'Upon  my  giving  into  your  hands  a  poem  of  the 
length  of  Rokeby,  I  am  to  receive  from  you  the  sum  of  £3000. 
If  you  agree  to  this  proposal,  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  close 
with  you  definitely,  and  have  the  honour  to  be,  gentlemen, 
your  very  obliged  and  humble  servant,       Thomas  Moore.' 

"  I  beg  to  stipulate  that  the  few  songs  which  I  may  intro- 
duce in  this  work  shall  be  considered  as  reserved  for  my  own 
setting." 

Copy  of  terms  written  to  Mr.  Moore : — 

"  That  upon  your  giving  into  our  hands  a  poem  of  yours  of 
the  length  of  Rokeby,  you  sliall  receive  from  us  the  sum  of 
.£3000.  We  also  agree  to  the  stipulation,  that  the  few  songs 
which  you  may  introduce  into  the  work  shall  be  considered  as 
reserved  for  your  own  setting." 

After  a  time  hs  again  wrote  to  Mr.  Longman  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Mayficld  Cottage,  April  25,  1815. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  hope  to  see  you  in  town  the  beginning  of 
next  week.     I  had  copied  out  fairly  about  4000  lines  of  my 


58  LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

work,  for  the  purpose  of  submitting  them  to  your  perusal,  as 
I  promised  ;  but,  upon  further  consideration,  I  have  changed 
my  intention ;  for  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  if  you  should 
happen  not  to  be  quite  as  much  pleased  with  what  I  have 
done  as  I  could  wish,  it  might  have  the  effect  of  disheartening 
me  for  the  execution  of  the  remaining  and  most  interesting 
part,  so  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  withholding  it  from  your 
perusal  till  it  is  finished  ;  and  then,  I  repeat,  it  shall  be  per- 
fectly in  your  power  to  cancel  our  agreement,  if  the  merits  of 
the  work  should  not  meet  your  exiaectation.  It  will  consist 
altogether  of  at  least  6000  lines ;  and  as  into  every  one  of  these 
I  am  throwing  as  much  mind  and  polish  as  I  am  master  of, 
the  task  is  no  trifling  one." 

The  firm,  ever  honourable  in  all  its  transactions,  at  once 
expressed  its  entire  confidence  in  Moore,  and  its  intention 
to  abide  by  its  agreement. 

In  his  cottage  at  Mayfield,  in  Derbyshire,  he  studied 
Oriental  literature  summer  and  winter;  and,  in  four  years 
after  his  arrangement  with  the  firm,  Lalla  Eookh  was 
completed. 

Of  this  undertaking  he  himself  afterwards  said  : — "  It 
was,  indeed,  to  the  secluded  life  I  led  during  the  years 
1813-1816,  in  a  lone  cottage  among  the  fields,  in  Derby- 
shire, that  I  owed  the  inspiration,  whatever  may  have 
been  its  value,  of  some  of  the  best  and  most  popular 
portions  of  Lalla  Eookh.  It  was  amidst  the  snows  of  two 
or  three  Derbyshire  winters  that  I  found  myself  enabled, 
by  that  concentration  of  thought  which  retirement  alone 
gives,  to  call  up  around  me  some  of  the  sunniest  of  those 
eastern  scenes  which  have  since  been  welcotned  in  India 
itself,  as  almost  native  to  its  clime." 

Of  Mayfield  he  writes  to  E.  T.  Dalton,  Esq.,  in  1815  :— 
"  Tell  Sir  John  (Stevenson)  that  he  must  positively  pass  the 
next  summer  at  this  cottage  with  us.  If  he  loves  a  beauti- 
ful country,  where  every  step  opens  valleys,  woods,  parks, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOORE.  59 

and  all  kinds  of  rural  glories  upon  the  eye,  this  is  the 
Paradise  for  him,  and  (to  descend  lower  in  the  scale) 
he  shaU  have  as  good  hruion  souj)  as  we  gave  him  in 
Kegworth." 

In  1816  he  removed  to  Hornsey,  near  London,  in  order 
to  see  Lalla  Rookh  through  the  press.  It  was  published — 
a  quarto  volume — in  1817,  and,  striking  a  new  key-note, 
was  a  splendid  success,  dazzling  the  readers  of  the  day 
with  its  gorgeous  eastern  illustration  and  imagery. 
Within  a  fortnight  of  its  issue  the  first  edition  was 
sold  out ;  and,  within  six  months,  it  had  reached  a  sixth 
edition.  Parts  of  the  work  were  rendered  into  Persian; 
and  Mr.  Luttrell,  writing  to  Moore,  said  : — 

"  I'm  told,  dear  Moore,  your  lays  are  sung, 
(Can  it  be  true,  you  lucky  man  ?) 
By  moonlight,  in  the  Persian  tongue, 
Along  the  streets  of  Ispahan." 

And  Lord  Strangford  wi'ote  : — 

"  Clifton,  June  20,  1817. 

"  My  dear  Moore, —  ....  I  plucked  up  courage,  two 
days  ago,  and  called  on  Rogers,  who  was  quite  delightful. 
We  got  on  famously  together,  and  I  have  lost  so  much  of  my 
terror  that  I  shall  assault  him  with  frequent  visitations  on 
my  return  to  town. 

"  My  mother  is  a  bit  of  a  saint ;  she  is  reading  your  book 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The  following  dialogue  has 
just  passed  between  us  : — 

"  '  Sinner — I  am  writing  Moore.' 

" '  Sahit — I  am  reading  Moore.' 

" '  Sinner — What  shall  I  say  to  Moore  1  * 

"  *  Saint  —  That  I  am  shocked  at  my  own  wickedness  in 
admiring  anything  in  this  world  so  much  as  I  do  his  poem  ! ' 

"  God  bless  you.     Ever  most  affectionately  yours, 

5  "  Strangford." 


60  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Lalla  Bookh, — signifying  tulip  cheek, — is  Moore's  most 
elaborate  poem.  It  is  an  oriental  romance,  with  its  daz- 
zling wealth  of  gorgeous  illustration  and  imagery,  pre- 
senting a  brilliant  picture  of  eastern  life  and  thought. 
It  consists  of  four  tales  connected  by  a  slight  narrative  in 
prose. 

"Lalla  Rookh,  famed  for  her  beauty,  was  the  youngest 
daughter  of  the  Emperor  Aurungzebe,  who  reigned  in 
Delhi  in  India.  A  marriage  having  been  arranged  be- 
tween this  princess  and  the  reigning  prince  of  Lesser 
Bucharia,  which  was  to  be  celebrated  in  Cashmere,  Lalla 
Rookh  departed  on  her  journey  thither  accompanied  by 
a  suitable  train  of  attendants,  among  whom  was  a  young 
poet  noted  for  his  ability  in  reciting  the  Stories  of  the 
East.  To  while  away  the  tedium  of  the  journey  the  ser- 
vices of  this  young  poet  were  called  into  requisition,  and 
he  charmed  the  princess  by  reciting  in  her  hearing  four 
tales,  'The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan,'  'Paradise  and 
the  Peri,'  '  The  Fire-worshippers,'  and  the  '  Light  of  the 
Harem.'  Arrived  at  Cashmere  Lalla  Rookh  was  over- 
joyed to  recognize  in  her  bridegroom  the  poet  who,  by 
his  graceful  appearance,  gentle  mien,  and  delightful 
verses,  had  already  completely  captivated  her  affections."^ 

Its  illustrations  are  so  accurate,  that  Col.  Wilks,  the 
historian  of  British  India,  thought  Moore  must  have 
travelled  in  the  East.  But  the  lay-figures  introduced 
lack  character;  there  is,  throughout,  a  marked  deficiency 
of  dramatic  power  and  completeness;  and,  from  the  very 
excess  of  ornament  and  exuberant  fancy,  its  sweetness 
and  sparkle  pall  on  the  senses. 

The  reader  sympathizes  with  the  French  gentleman 
who  said  that  "he  admired  the  pastorals  of  M.  de  Florian 

1  From  Blackie's  School  Classics,  The  Fire-worshippers. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  61 

very  much,  but  that  he  considered  a  wolf  would  improve 
them." 

Full  of  glittering  fancy,  "  it  lacks  passion,  pathos,  and 
the  shaping  sj)irit  of  imagination."  Professor  Morley 
quaintly  says,  that  "beside  poems  that  rank  with  the 
powers  of  Nature,  it  looks  like  an  oriental  sugar-candy 
temple  of  such  confectioner's  work  as  was  also  fashionable 
in  the  days  when  Lalla  Roohh  was  read." 

Hazlitt  wrote  of  Moore,  "  His  fancy  is  for  ever  on  the 
wing,  flutters  in  the  gale,  glitters  in  the  sun.  Every- 
thing lives,  moves,  and  sparkles  in  his  poetry;  while, 
over  all,  Love  waves  his  purple  light.  His  variety  cloys, 
hie  rapidity  dazzles  and  distracts  the  sight.  He  wants 
intensity,  strength,  and  grandeur.  ...  If  Lalla 
Roohh  be  not  a  great  poem  it  is  a  marvellous  work  of 
art,  and  contains  paintings  of  local  scenery  and  manners 
unsurpassed  for  fidelity  and  picturesque  effect.  The 
poet  was  a  diligent  student,  and  his  oriental  reading  was 
as  good  as  riding  on  the  back  of  a  camel." 

"  I  have  read  Lalla  Roohh  (says  Byron),  but  not  with 
sufficient  attention  yet,  for  I  ride  about,  and  lounge,  and 
ponder,  and  two  or  three  other  things,  so  that  my  read- 
ing is  very  desultory,  and  not  so  attentive  as  it  used  to  be. 
I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of  its  popularity,  for  Moore  is  a  very 
noble  fellow  in  all  respects,  and  will  enjoy  it  without  any 
of  the  bad  feelings  which  success — good  or  evil — sometimes 
engenders  in  men  of  rhyme.  Of  the  poem  itself  I  will 
tell  you  my  opinion  when  I  have  mastered  it.  I  say  of 
the  poem,  for  I  don't  like  the  prose  at  all;  in  the  mean- 
time, the  'Fire-worshippers'  is  the  best,  and  the  'Veiled 
Prophet'  the  worst  of  the  volume." 

Lord  John  Eussell  says  "Crabbe  preferred  the  'Veiled 
Prophet;'  Byron,  the  'Fire-worshippers.'  Of  these,  the 
'Veiled  Prophet'  displays  the  greater  power;  the 'Fire- 


62  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

worshippers'  the  more  natural  and  genuine  passion."  Scott 
spoke  very  highly  of  the  "Fire-worshippers."  Stopford 
A.  Brooke  adds  that  "the  tales  in  Lalla  Rookh  are  chiefly 
flash  and  glitter,  but  they  are  pleasant  reading." 

Some  of  the  lyrics  which  are  found  in  its  pages  are 
very  melodious  and  beautiful;  and,  while  admitting  the 
abstract  justice  of  many  of  the  adverse  criticisms  we  have 
quoted,  we  submit  that  there  are  times,  seasons,  and 
moods,  when  it  is  very  pleasant  to  be  half  smothered  in 
roses ! 

In  the  metrical  structure  of  the  verse,  and  in  its  melli- 
fluous musical  rhythm,  there  are  passages  of  Lalla  Rookh 
which  are  superior  to  any  of  his  other  poems,  except  the 
Irish  "Melodies."  We  are  about  to  quote  passages  from 
each  of  the  four  Tales,  and  would  call  attention  to  the 
opening  passage  of  "The  Light  of  the  Harem,"  especially 
to  the  ten  lines  beginning, 

"  Here  the  music  of  pray'r  from  a  minaret  swells ; " 

of  which  it  has  been  well  said,  "  To  deny  the  music  of 
such  verses  as  these  would  be  sheer  fatuity.  The  art 
with  which  the  broad  vowels,  with  their  deep,  bell-like 
sound,  are  distributed  through  the  first  four  lines  is  simply 
masterly;  and  the  rest,  if  not  quite  so  good,  is  still  ex- 
cellent in  the  impression  it  preserves  of  the  odorous 
languor  of  a  silent  tropical  night."  But  Moore  "rarely 
reaches,  and  can  never  in  his  narrative  poems  sustain 
a  level  flight  so  musical  as  that  he  contrives  to  attain 
in  the  passage  we  have  just  quoted." 

The  poem  also  contains  some  passages  of  wonderful 
power,  and  we  have  very  lately  seen,  as  was  remarked 
by  Lord  O'Hagan,  Prince  Bismark,  "  the  man  of  blood 
and  iron,"  seeking  in  the  "  Veiled  Proj^het "  of  the  Irish 
minstrel,  illustration  of  his  argument  before  the  Reichsrath. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  63' 

FEOM   LALLA  EOOKH. 

I. — From  "The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorass.vn." 
zelica's  love. 

Tliere's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream. 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget, 

But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 

I  think — is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Beudemeer] 

No,  the  roses  soon  wither'd  that  hung  o'er  the  wave, 

But  some  blossoms  were  gather'd,  while  freshly  they  shone, 

And  a  dew  was  distill'd  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer,  when  summer  was  gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 

An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year; 
Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes. 

Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer ! 

11. — From  "Paradise  and  the  Peri." 

introduction. 
One  morn  a  Pei'i  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place ! 

"  How  happy,"  exclaim'd  this  child  of  air, 
"  Are  the  holy  Spirits  who  wander  there. 
Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 


64  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 
One  blossom  of  Heaven  out-blooms  them  all ! 

"  Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
"With  its  plane-tree  Isle  reflected  clear, 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  Valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray, 
Yet — oh,  'tis  only  the  Blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  Heaven  outshine  them  all ! 

"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spi'eads  its  flaming  wall : 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years. 

One  minute  of  Heaven  is  worth  them  all ! " 

The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  keeping 
The  gates  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping; 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listen'd 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glisten'd 
Within  her  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flow'r,  which — Bramins  say — 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Pai'adise. 

"Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line  !" 
Gently  he  said — "  One  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

The  Peri  yet  may  be  forgiv'n 
Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  gate 

The  Gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven! 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  pardon'd  in." 

Eapidly  as  comets  run 
To  the  embraces  of  the  Sun ; — 
Fleeter  than  the  starry  brands 
Flung  at  night  from  angel  hands 
At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  65 

Who  would  climb  the  empyreal  heights, 
Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  flies, 

And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 
That  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes, 

Hung  hov'ring  o'er  our  world's  expanse. 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heav'n?— "I  know 

The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "  of  every  urn, 

In  which  unnumber'd  rubies  burn. 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar ; 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are, 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  tlie  sea. 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby; 

I  know,  too,  whei'e  the  Genii  hid 

The  jewell'd  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid, 

With  Life's  elixir  sparkling  high — 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  Throne? 

And  the  Drops  of  Life — oh !  what  would  they  be 

In  the  boundless  Deep  of  Eternity?" 


Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes. 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  tow're, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet. 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flow'rs, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one,  who  look'd  from  upper  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there. 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 
The  life,  the  sparkling  from  below ! 
Fair  gai'dens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 
Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 


G6  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

More  golden  where  the  sunlight  falls ; — 

Gay  lizards,  glitt'ring  on  the  walls 

Of  ruin'd  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  aU  alive  with  light ; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks. 

With  their  rich  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  ciimsou  beam 

Of  the  warm  West, — as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  a  span 

The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan, 

And  then  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 

Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flow'ry  vales ; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales. 

THE   TEARS   OF   PENITENCE. 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  Man, 
Reclining  there — while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife. 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life. 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place. 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace. 
"  There  ^vas  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild. 
Heart-humbled  tones — "  thou  blessed  child  ! 
When,  young  and  haply  \n\Ye  as  thou, 
I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee— but  now — " 
He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept ! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  67 

"  There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  from  the 
moon 
Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  pow'r, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  ev'n  in  the  hour 
That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies ! — 
Oh,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin, 

The  precious  tears  of  rejientance  fall? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispell'd  them  all !" 

And  now — behold  him  kneeling  there 

By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  pray'r, 

While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 

The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one. 

And  hymns  of  joy  proclaimed  through  Heav'n 

The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiv'n ! 

'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set. 
While  on  their  knees  they  linger'd  yet, 
There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star. 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam — 
But  well  the  enraptur'd  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  Heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"  Joy,  joy  for  ever  !  my  task  is  done — 
The  gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heav'n  is  won !" 

III. — From  "The  Fire-worshippers." 

"  This  story  is  founded  on  the  fierce  struggle  so  long 
maintained  between  the  Ghebers,  or  ancient  Fire-worship- 
pers of  Persia,  and  their  haughty  Moslem  masters.     The 


68  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

cause  of  tolerance  is  the  inspiring  theme;  and  the  spirit 
that  speaks  in  the  melodies  of  Ireland  finds  itself  at  home 
in  the  East. — The  worship  of  Fire  was  introduced  into 
Persia  by  Zoroaster,  a  great  religious  reformer,  about  the 
twelfth  century  before  Christ.  The  Persians  saluted  the 
rising  sun  as  the  symbol  of  the  purest  fire ;  they  regarded 
fire  as  the  protector  of  states :  and  in  certain  temples  the 
sacred  fire  was  never  extinguished,  but  was  kept  burning 
night  and  day.  Every  detail  concerning  the  ceremonies 
of  this  worship  is  to  be  found  in  the  Zend-Avesta,  or 
Sacred  Book  of  the  Ghebers,  which  is  still  extant. 

"  The  word  Gheber  (infidel)  was  a  term  of  reproach 
given  by  Mussulmans  to  all  (except  Jews  and  Christians) 
who  did  not  profess  Mahommedanism;  but  it  applied 
particularly  to  the  followers  of  Zoroaster. 

"  The  events  alluded  to  in  this  poem  are  supposed  to 
have  taken  place  as  early  as  the  seventh  century,  when 
Fire-worship  was  proscribed,  and  its  partisans  dispersed. 

"  The  poem  opens  with  an  account  of  the  sufferings  of 
the  Ghebers  under  the  tyranny  of  their  Arab  conquerors. 
Then  follows  a  description  of  Hinda,  the  Emir's  daughter, 
who  having  accompanied  her  father  to  the  war  had  been 
placed  by  him  in  a  safe  retreat  among  the  mountains. 

"  A  romantic  attachment  springs  up  between  her  and 
an  unknown  youth;  but  one  sad  day  he  reveals  to  her 
that  he  belongs  to  the  hated  race  of  Ghebers,  and  is 
therefore  the  sworn  enemy  of  her  father.  The  interview 
ends  with  his  declaration  that  Love  must  give  way  to 
Vengeance:  and  so  they  part;  he  to  return  to  the  war, 
she  to  mourn  in  her  bower. 

"  The  valour  of  the  Ghebers  was  unavailing  against  the 
overwhelming  number  of  Arabs;  and  at  last  Hafed  the 
Gheber  chief  (the  hero  of  our  story)  was  compelled  to 
retire  with  a  few  followers  to  a  mountain  fastness. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  69 

"For  seven  weary  days  Hincla  watches  in  vain  for 
the  return  of  her  lover.  On  the  eighth  day  her  father, 
Al  Hassan,  tells  her  with  fierce  glee  that  the  hiding-place 
of  Hafed  has  been  betrayed,  and  that  before  sunset  he 
shall  be  slain.  He  bids  her  return  to  her  native  land; 
and  for  this  purpose  places  her  on  board  a  vessel  bound 
for  Arabia.  This  vessel  is  attacked  by  Ghebers,  and  the 
maiden  taken  captive.  She  is  blindfolded,  and  carried 
on  a  litter  to  the  fortress  of  Hafed.  On  the  way  she 
hears  a  well-known  voice  which  says,  '  Tremble  not,  love, 
thy  Gheber  is  here.  The  bandage  is  then  removed  from 
her  eyes,  and  she  discovers  that  the  chief  whose  name 
she  had  been  taught  to  fear  and  hate  is  none  other  than 
her  beloved  Gheber !  She  tells  him  that  his  secret  has 
been  betrayed,  and  implores  him  to  fly  with  her  that 
night:  but  vengeance  again  conquers  love,  and  Hafed  is 
determined  to  die  in  the  cause  of  his  country  and  his 
faith.  He  confides  the  weeping  damsel  to  the  care  of  his 
most  trustworthy  veterans,  and  bids  them  coavey  her 
back  to  her  father,  in  the  hope  that  the  restoration  of  Al 
Hassan's  daughter  will  secure  their  pardon.  The  brave 
young  chieftain  then  sounds  the  war-whoop,  and  prepares 
for  his  death-struggle. 

"  The  Ghebers  assemble  at  the  entrance  of  a  narrow 
glen  which  is  guarded  by  a  deep  ravine.  A  fearful  shout 
soon  warns  them  of  the  approach  of  their  enemies,  who, 
by  the  light  of  their  torches,  are  seen  advancing  in  great 
numbers. 

"The  Moslems  dash  into  the  ravine:  and  while  many 
perish  in  their  attempt  to  cross  the  torrent,  others  are 
hurled  back  by  the  swords  of  the  Ghebers.  The  dead 
bodies  of  the  slain  fill  up  the  ravine,  and  form  a  bridge 
for  the  remaining  host  to  pass  over.  Then  ensues  a 
terrible  struggle,  in  which  all  the  brave  Ghebers  are 


70  LIFE  SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOORE. 

killed,  with  the  exception  of  two,  their  chieftain  and  one 
follower.  These  two  make  their  escape  in  the  darkness, 
and  with  difficulty  climb  up  the  hill  to  offer  their  last 
breath  at  the  altar  of  their  Fire -God.  The  Gheber 
warrior  dies  just  as  the  shrine  is  reached;  but  is  placed 
on  the  burning  pile  by  his  gallant  chieftain.  Hafed  then 
leaps  upon  the  altar,  and  expires  before  the  flames  can 
reach  him. 

"  From  her  bark  below,  the  afflicted  maiden  hears  the 
war-cry  on  the  mountain,  and  knows  that  her  lover  must 
die  in  that  fight.  Suddenly  she  sees  a  blaze  on  the  dis- 
tant altar,  and  the  form  of  Hafed  is  revealed  in  the  act 
of  leaping  on  the  funeral-pile.  With  a  fearful  shriek  she 
leaps  out  of  the  boat,  as  if  to  reach  her  lover;  and  sinks 
beneath  the  waves." ^ 

'Tis  moonliglit  over  Oman's  Sea ; 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  palmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles. 
'Tis  moonlight  in  Harmozia's  walls, 
And  through  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls, 
Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swell 
Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel,^ 
Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell ; — 
The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's*  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lovers'  lutes, 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest. 
All  hush'd — there's  not  a  bi'eeze  in  motion ; 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

1  From  Blackie's  School  Classics,  The  Fire-worshippers. 

2  The  Persian  Gulf,  sometimes  so  called,  which  separates  the  shores  of 
Persia  and  Araliia. 

*  A  Moorish  instrument  of  music.  *  A  singing-bird. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  71 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven ; — 
The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome^ 
Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

Ev'n  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 

Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps; 

While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 

And  falchions  from  iinnumber'd  sheaths 

Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 

His  race  hath  brought  on  Iran's  ^  name. 

Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmov'd  alike 

'Mid  eyes  that  weep  and  swords  that  strike; — 

One  of  that  saintly  murderous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  tlie  Koran  given. 
Who  think  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heaven  ; — 
One,  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd, 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword ; — 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 
Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart ! 

Just  Alia  !^  what  must  be  thy  look, 

When  such  a  wretch  before  thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  thy  sacred  Book, — 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  han  Is, 
And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust,  and  hate,  and  crime ; — 
Ev'n  as  those  bees  of  Trebizond, 

Which,  from  the  sunniest  flowers  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smiles  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad, 

1  At  Gombaroon  and  other  places  in  Persia,  they  have  towers  for  the  pur- 
pose of  catching  the  wind,  and  cooling  the  houses.— Z/e  Bruyn. 

2  Iran  is  the  true  general  name  for  the  empire  of  Persia. 
8  The  Arabic  name  of  the  Supreme  Being. 


72  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great ; 
Never  -was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 
Her  throne  had  fall'n — her  pride  was  crush'd — 
Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd, 
In  their  own  land, — no  more  their  own, — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  towers,  where  Mithra^  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrines — oh  shame ! — were  turu'd, 
Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 
Their  mean  apostate  worship  poiir'd, 
And  curs'd  the  faith  their  sires  ador'd. 

Yet  has  she  hearts,  'mid  all  this  ill, 

O'er  all  this  wreck  high  buoyant  still 

With  hope  and  vengeance; — hearts  that  yet — 

Like  gems,  in  darkness,  issuing  rays 
They've  treasur'd  from  the  sun  that's  set, — 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know, 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  luxury  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becalm'd  in  Heaven's  approving  I'ay 
Sleep  on — for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  husli'd,  those  jjlanets  shine; 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmov'd 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzling  pow'r; — 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  lov'd 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 

And  see — where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deej)  their  shadows  fling, 

Yon  turret  stands ; — where  ebou  locks 
As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 

Upon  the  turban  of  a  king, 

'  The  sun  was  so  called  by  the  Ghebers. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  73 

Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild, — 
'Tis  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child, 
All  truth  and  tenderness  and  grace. 
Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race; — 
An  image  of  Youth's  radiant  Fountain 
Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  ! 

Oh  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  beauty,  curtain'd  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye,— 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea, 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity. 
So  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrin'd. 
And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er ! — 
Like  those  who,  all  at  once,  discover 

Li  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breath'd  but  theirs. 

Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide, 

On  summer-eves,  through  Yemen's'  dales, 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  littei's'  roseate  veils : — 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jasmine  flowers  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  luU'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bower. 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time, 

And  grow  still  lovelier  every  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 

In  Araby's  gay  Haram  smil'd 

1  The  south-western  portion  of  Arabia ;  called  also  Arabia  Felix,  the  happy 
or  blessed  Arabia. 


74  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE, 

Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 
Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Light  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness ; — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded  like  serpents,  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  emerald's  virgin  blaze ; — 
Yet  fill'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this : 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling, 
Religion's  softened  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere. 

Such  is  the  maid  who,  at  this  hour, 
Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep. 

And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bower. 
Watching  the  still  and  shining  deep. 

Ah !  'twas  not  thus,  with  tearful  eyes 
And  beating  heart, — she  us'd  to  gaze 

On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies, 
In  her  own  land,  in  hapjiier  days. 

Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 

Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep? 

Whom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night? 
Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep, 
For  man  to  scale  that  tuii-et's  height ! — 

So  deem'd  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire. 
When  liigh,  to  catch  the  cool  night-air. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOORE.  75 

After  the  day-beam's  witlieiiiifi;  fire, 

He  1)11  ilt  her  bower  of  fieshue.ss  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costhest  skill. 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair ; — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer !  think  so  still, 

Nor  wake  to  leain  what  love  can  dare ;^ 
Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  with  ease ; — 
Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  Danger's  precipice  ! 
Bolder  than  they,  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls,  but  when  the  sea's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive, 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water. 
Yes — Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter. 
Though  high  that  tower,  that  rock-way  rude. 

There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  the  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak. 
And  think  its  stee^is,  though  dark  and  dread, 
Heaven's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led ! 
Ev'n  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way ; — 
Ev'n  now  thou  hear'st  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock. 
And  stretchest  down  thy  arms  of  snow. 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night. 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light, 
Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 
And  scal'd  the  terrace  of  his  bride ; — 
When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring. 
And  midway  up  in  danger  cling. 
She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair. 
Exclaiming  breathless,  "  There,  love,  there  ! " 
And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour, 

0 


76  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Than  wings  the  youth  who,  fleet  and  bold, 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower. 
See — light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber, 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 

And  now  is  in  the  maiden's  chamber. 
She  loves — but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came ; — 

Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 
Some  beauteous  bird  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze, 
From  isles  in  the  undiscover'd  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wondering  eyes,  and  wing  away ! 
Will  he  thus  fly — her  nameless  lover? 

Alia  forbid  !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  Kanoon,^ 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour, 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bower, 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs; 
And  thought  some  sjiirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there?) 
Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  way 
To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay ! 
This  fancy  ne'er  hath  left  her  mind : 

And — though,  when  terror's  swoon  had  past 
She  saw  a  youth,  of  mortal  kind. 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, — 
Yet  often  since,  when  he  hath  spoken 
Strange,  awful  words, — and  gleams  have  broken 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  bright  to  bear, 

Oh !  she  hath  fear'd  her  soul  was  given 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air. 
Some  erring  Spirit  cast  from  heaven, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 

'  A  stringed  instrument  of  music. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  77 

Who  buni'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd  left  the  gloiious  skies, 
And  lost  their  Heaven  for  woman's  eyes. 
Fond  girl !  nor  fiend  nor  angel  he 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassion'd  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day-god's  living  fire. 

But  quench'd  to-night  that  aixlour  seems, 
And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow ; — 

Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 
Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now : 

And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 

From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  wee]); 

Visions,  that  will  not  be  forgot. 
But  sadden  every  waking  scene. 

Like  warning  ghosts,  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  been. 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid. 
So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 
Looking  upon  that  tranquil  flood — 
"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 
To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle  ! 
Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 
I've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings. 
And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  jaulse  should  beat  but  ours. 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone  ! 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold, — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  paradise  so  pure  and  lonely. 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  1" — 
Playful  she  turn'd,  that  he  might  see 


78  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  jDassing  smile  hei-  cheek  put  on; 
But  wlien  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone; 
And,  bursting  into  heart-felt  tears, 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right — 
We  part — for  ever  part — to-night! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last — 
'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly,  but  'tis  past ! 
Oh!  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nurs'd  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die ! 
Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine, — 

Oh,  misery!  must  I  lose  that  too? 
Yet  go — on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; — 

Those  frightful  rocks— that  treacherous  sea- 
No,  never  come  agaiii — though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell — and  blessings  on  thy  way. 

Where'er  thou  goest,  beloved  stranger ! 
Bettei-  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray. 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger !" 

"  Danger ! — Oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast — " 
The  youth  exclaim'd — "thou  little  know'st 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nurst 
In  Danger's  paths,  has  dar'd  her  worst ! 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal- word 
Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking; 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  swoi-d 
His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking  !" 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  79. 


With  sudden  start  he  taru'd 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave, 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Bluely ,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave : 
And  fiery  darts,  at  intervals, 

Flew  up  all  si^arkling  from  the  main, 
As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls, 

Were  shooting  back  to  heaven  again. 

"  My  signal-lights  ! — T  must  away — 
Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 
Farewell — sweet  life  !  thou  cling'st  in  vain- 
No  w,  Vengeance,  I  am  thine  again." 
Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd. 
Nor  look'd — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 
Down  'mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath. 
As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 
While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stood, 
Nor  mov'd,  till  in  the  silent  flood 
A  momentary  plunge  below 
Startled  her  from  her  ti'ance  of  woe; — 
Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, 

"  I  come — I  come — if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleep'st  to-night,  I'll  sleep  there  too. 

In  death's  cold  wedlock,  by  thy  side. 
Oh !  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chill  wave  my  love  lies  under  :- 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead. 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder  !" 
But  no — their  hour  is  not  yet  come — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 
As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  left  one  breakinfr  heart  behind ! 


80  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  morn  hath  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea^  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's^  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kishma's^  amber  vines. 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  sea 
Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cajje, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, — 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flowery  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd, 
Had  tow'rd  that  holy  headland  cast — \ 
Oblations  to  the  Genii*  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

Where  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn, — bespangled  o'er 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brightest  scimitar 
That  every  youthful  Sultan  wore 

On  the  fii'st  morning  of  his  reign. 

And  see— the  Sun  himself ! — on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  East  he  springs. 
Angel  of  Light !  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Hath  first  of  all  the  staiTy  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire ! 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere. 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flower,  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd? — 

1  The  Persian  Gulf.  ^  An  island  in  the  Persian  Gulf. 

3  An  island  in  the  Persian  Gulf. 

*  Good  or  evil  spirits,  supposed  by  the  ancients  to  preside  over  every 
person,  place,  and  thing,  and  especially  to  preside  over  a  man's  destiny  from 
his  birth. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  81 

When,  from  the  bauks  of  Bendemeer^ 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand,^ 
Thy  temples  flam'd  o'er  all  the  land  ? 
Where  are  theyl  ask  the  shades  of  them 

Who,  on  Cadessia's^  bloody  plains, 
Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 
From  Iran's*  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains: — 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unlov'd,  unknown, 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates, 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bowers  and  sunny  fountains: 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 
His  own  belov'd,  but  blighted,  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod ! — 
Oh,  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 

Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed  ! 

Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  for  ever, 

Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves? — 
No— she  has  sons,  that  never — never — 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves, 
While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  has  graves ; — 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong : 
And  hearts  where,  slow  but  deei^,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds, 
Till,  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm, 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm,^ 

1  A  river  of  Persia. 

'^  A  city  of  Bokliara,  a  country  of  Central  Asia.  It  is  situated  in  a  beautiful 
and  fertile  valley  and  is  surrounded  with  gardens. 

3  The  place  where  the  Persians  were  finally  defeated  by  the  Arabs,  and  their 
ancient  monarchy  destroyed. 

*  Persia. 

'  The  Talpot  or  Talipot  tree,  a  beautiful  palm.    The  sheath  which  envelops 


82  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forest  round! 

Yes,  Emir!  he,  who  scal'd  that  tower — 

And,  had  he  reach'd  thy  slumbering  breast, 
Had  taught  thee,  in  a  Gheber's  power 

How  safe  ev'n  tyrant  heads  may  rest — 
Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he. 
Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee; 
Who,  though  tliey  know  the  strife  is  vain, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 
Sriaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 
Yet  dare  the  issue, — blest  to  be 
Ev'n  for  one  bleeding  moment  free. 
And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty ! 
Thou  know'st  them  well — 'tis  some  moons  since 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags. 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  prince. 

Have  swarm'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags; 
Yet  here,  ev'n  here,  a  sacred  band, 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  dar'st  to  call  thy  own. 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown; 
Here— ere  the  winds  half  wing'd  thee  o'er — 
Rebellion  brav'd  thee  from  the  shore. 
Rebellion!  foul,  dishonouring  word. 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'd 
The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 

Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 
How  many  a  spii'it,  born  to  bless, 

Hath  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name, 
Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success 

Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame ! 
As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  chill'd  at  first, 

the  flower  is  very  large,  and  when  it  bursts  makes  an  explosion  like  the  report 
of  a  cannon. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  83 

If  clieck'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs  and  sink  again; — 
But,  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 
Become  enthron'd  in  upper  air, 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there! 

And  who  is  he,  that  wields  the  might 

Of  Freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's^  warriors  wink] 
Who  comes,  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's^  hardy  mountaineers] — 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,  last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  his  worship  too! 

'Tis  Hafed — name  of  fear,  whose  sound 
Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm! — 

Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 
And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 

'Tis  Hafed,  most  accurs'd  and  dire 

(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 

Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire; 

Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 

The  Arabs,  at  their  mid-watch  hour, 

Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell, 

That  each  affrighted  sentinel 

Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 

Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise ! 

A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 

A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth. 

Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings. 
Who  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore 

A  feather  fi-om  the  mystic  wings 
'  Arabia  Felix.  2  a  province  of  Persia,  lying  on  tlie  Persian  Gulf. 


84  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore; 
And  gifted  by  the  Fiends  of  Fire, 
Who  groan'd  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 
With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood, 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood ! 

Such  were  the  tales  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  colouring  Fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief,— 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave. 
Fought  for  the  laud  his  soul  ador'd. 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free, — 
His  only  talisman,^  the  sword. 

His  only  spell- word,  Liberty! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line. 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names  that  have  sanctified  their  blood  ; 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  render'd  holy  by  the  I'anks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks. 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny; 
'Twas  not  for  him  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Wliose  melancholy  spirit  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  fram'd  for  Iran's  happiest  years. 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears ! — 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem,  as  he  pass'd. 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast — 
No — far  he  fled — indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame ; 
And  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

1  A  charm  or  spell 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  85 

Of  a  fii'st  smile,  so  welcom'd  he 

The  s^jai-kle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 

For  vengeance  and  for  liberty ! 

But  vain  was  valour — vain  the  flower 
Of  Kerraan,  in  that  deathful  hour, 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power, — 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 
Upon  the  tln-eshold  of  that  realm 
He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway. 
And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way — 
In  vain — for  every  lance  they  rais'd, 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blaz'd ; 
For  every  arm  that  lin'd  their  shore. 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er, — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd, 
Before  whose  swarm  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust  cloud. 

There  stood — but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harraozia's  sultry  bay — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  Sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully; 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Arovmd  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants,  in  the  flood. 

As  if  to  guard  the  Gulf  across; 
While,  on  its  peak,  that  brav'd  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  Temple  tower'd,  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing, 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumbering 
Started — to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air  ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 


86  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

That  dasli'd,  like  midnight  reA^ellers,  in; — 
And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roU'd, — 
And  such  tlie  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprison'd  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem,  who  would  dare, 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  cliff. 

On  the  land  side,  those  towers  sublime, 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  sever'd  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deej:),  and  wizard  glen, 
So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between : 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  Gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder  from  below. 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came. 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If  'twere  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
For,  each  ravine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire ;  ^ 
And,  though  for  ever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone, — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  votaries  gone, 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on,^ 
Through  chance  and  change,  tln-ough  good  and  ill, 
lake  its  own  God's  eternal  will, 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable ! 

Thither  the  vanquish'd  Hafed  led 
His  little  army's  last  remains; — 

'  Tlie  Gliebers  generally  built  their  temples  over  subterraneous  fires. 
2  The  Ghebers  assert  that  the  sacred  Are  in  the  Temple  at  Yezd,  a  city  of 
Persia,  lias  continueil  to  burn  since  the  days  of  Zoroaster. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  87 

"Welcome,  terrific  glen  !"  he  said, 
"Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'i  self  might  dread, 
Is  heav'n  to  him  who  flies  from  chains!" 

O'er  a  dark,  narrow  bridge-way  known 

To  him  and  to  his  Chiefs  alone, 

They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  towers, — 
"  This  home,"  he  cried,  "  at  least  is  ours ; 

Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hynnm 
Of  Moslem  ti'iumph  o'er  our  head; 

Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 
To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread. 

Stretch'd  on  this  lock,  while  vulture's  beaks 

Are  whetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks. 

Here — happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 

Gloats  on  our  torments — we  may  die  ! 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned ; 

And  though  but  few — though  fast  the  wave 
Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains. 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
Eush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robber's  way, 
We'll  bound  upon  our  startled  prey; 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell ; 
When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  ev'n  Despair  can  prompt  no  more, 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save  !" 

His  Chiefs  stood  round — each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid — 
And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  Mighty  sate; 
1  Lucifer,  Satan. 


88  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

No  longer  on  those  mouldering  towers 
"Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed  i 
The  wandering  spirits  of  their  dead ; 
Though  neither  priests  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charmed  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate ; 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet ; 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them,  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts,  still  left  to  bleed, 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name. 
To  die  upon  that  Mount  of  Flame — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line. 
Before  her  last  untrampled  Shrine  ! 

'Tis  the  eighth  morn — Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brighten'd  with  unusual  joy — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now. 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy? 
The  sparkle  upon  Herkend's  sea, 
When  toss'd  at  midnight  furiously, 
Tells  not  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh. 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye ! 
"Up,  daughter,  up — the  Kerna's^  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  deatli. 
And  yet  thou  sleep'st — \\\),  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flash'd  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
Before  another  dawn  shall  shine. 
His  head — heart — limbs — will  all  be  mine; 

1  The  Magi  were  a  sect  of  priests  or  philosopliers  in  Persia.  They  used  to 
place  upon  the  top  of  higli  towers  various  kinds  of  rich  viands,  upon  which 
it  was  supposed  tlie  Peris  and  spirits  of  their  departed  heroes  regaled  them- 
selves. 

2  A  kind  of  trumpet, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE,  89 

This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 
These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  ! " 

"  His  blood  ! "  she  faintly  scream'd — her  mind 

Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind — 
"  Yes — sj^ite  of  his  ravines  and  towers, 
Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 
Thanks  to  all-conquering  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accurst, 
That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 
Too  strong  for  Aila's  self  to  burst ! 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true ; 

There  Itirk'd  one  wi-etch  among  the  few 

Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 

Around  him  on  that  fiery  Mount, — 

One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  betray'd 

The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade 

To  those  high  towers,  where  Freedom  stood 

In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood. 

Left  on  the  field  last  dreadful  night, 

When,  sallying  from  their  sacred  height, 

The  Ghebers  fought  Hoj^e's  farewell  fight, 

He  lay — but  died  not  with  the  brave ; 

That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave. 

Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave ; — 

And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 

To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 

For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 

They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 

He  liv'd,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 

Laugh'd  them  and  Faith  and  Heaven  to  scorn. 


HINDA  S  LOVE. 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attends 
His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends — 
Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams? 


90  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

What  plans  lie  now?  what  thinks  or  dreams? 
Alas  !  why  stands  he  musing  here, 
When  every  moment  teams  with  fear  ? 
"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  Lord," 
She  kneeling  cries — "  first,  last  ador'd ! 
If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pi-ay  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly — 
Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh  haste — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  dark'ning  sea. 
East — west — alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me,  smiling  thus, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shine, 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us ! 
On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  'tis  no  ciime  to  love  too  well ; — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin — or  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day. 
Though,  for  my  sake  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I — at  any  God's  for  thine." 

Wildly  these  jaassionate  words  she  spoke — 
Then  hung  her  head  and  wept  for  shame; 

Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep-heaved  sob  that  came. 

While  he,  young,  warm — oh  !  wonder  not 
If  for  a  moment  pride  and  fame. 
His  oath — his  cause — that  shrine  of  flame, 

And  Iran's  self  are  all  forgot 

For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  91 

Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 
No,  blame  him  not,  if  hope  awhile 
Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 
O'er  hours  to  come — o'er  days  and  nights, 
Wing'd  with  those  precious,  pure  delights 
Which  she,  who  bends  all  beauteous  there, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share, 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
First  warn'd  him  of  this  dang'rous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drojjs  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray; — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dews  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  light. 
Yet  though  subdued  th'  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  its  look  and  tone. 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half-counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smil'd  and  bless'd  him,  while  he  said, — 
"  Yes — if  there  be  some  happier  sjDhere, 
Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear, — 
If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love,  and  ne'er  forget. 
Oh  !  comfort  thee — for  safe  and  blest 

We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet !" 

Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  her  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart. 
When  the  rous'd  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tow'r-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 
A  pond'rous  sea-horn  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  storm-fiend  at  his  i-ising,  blows. — 
7 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Full  well  his  Chieftaius,  swoini  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew; 
For  'twas  th'  appointed  warning  blast, 
Th'  alarm,  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast ! 
And  there  upon  the  mould'ring  tow'r. 
Hath  hung  this  sea-horn  many  an  hour. 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 

They  came — his  Chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all — 
Alas  how  few !- — the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gaily  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun. 
And  as  their  coursers  charg'd  the  wind. 
And  the  white  ox-tails  streamed  behind, 
Looking,  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode. 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  chief  a  god  ! 
How  fall'n,  how  alter'd  now  !  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came ; — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast 
As  mute  they  paus'd  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd  ! 
'Twas  silence  all — the  youth  had  plauii'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band; 
And  each  determin'd  brow  declares 
His  faithful  Chieftains  well  know  theirs. 

But  minutes  speed — night  gems  the  skies — 
And  oh  !  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes, 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold  ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  93 

Her  litter  silently  pi'ei^are, 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet; — 
And  now  tlie  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Hath  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand,  that  ling'ring  press 

Of  hands  that  for  the  last  time  sever; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  for  ever. 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hojDe — so  fondly  hope  can  err ! 
'Twas  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mvxte  excess — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger; 
'Twas  warmth — assurance — tenderness — 

'Twas  anything  but  leaving  her. 

"Haste,  haste,"  she  cried,  "  the  clouds  grow  dark, 
But  still  ere  night  we'll  reach  the  bark; 
And  by  to-morrow's  dawn — oh  bliss ! 

With  thee  upon  the  sun-bright  deep. 
Far  off,  I'll  but  remember  this, 

As  some  dai'k  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep  ; 
And  thou "  but  ah  ! — he  answeis  not — 

Good  Heav'n  ! — and  does  she  go  alone  1 
She  now  has  reach'd  that  dismal  spot, 

Where  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ills, 
Sweet  as  the  angel  Israfil's, 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy — 
Yet  now — oh,  now,  he  is  not  nigh. — 

"Hafed  !  my  Hafed  !— if  it  be 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but  stay  to  die  with  thee. 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name, 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leave  this  frame. 
Oh  !  let  our  lips  our  cheeks  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade; 
liet  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 


94  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths ! 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay — 

Oh !  stay — one  moment  is  not  much — 
He  yet  may  come — for  him  I  pray — 
Hafed  !  dear  Hafed !"— all  the  way 

In  wild  lamentings,  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods — no  Hafed  came  : — • 
No— hapless  pair— you've  look'd  your  last : — 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then : 
The  dream  is  o'er— your  doom  is  cast — 

You'll  never  meet  on  earth  again ! 

THE    peri's    song. 

Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  A  raby's  daughter ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea), 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing. 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  Love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music,  and  wither'd  its  frame ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the  old. 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when  with  flow'rs  she  dresses 
Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day. 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses. 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  95 

Nor  shall  Iran,  belov'd  of  her  Hero !  forget  thee — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 

With  ev'rything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep; 

Each  flow'r  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow-wreath'd  chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head ; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are  sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 

They'll  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on  the  mountain 
They'll  weep  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps  in  this  wave. 

IV. — From  "  The  Light  of  the  Harem." 

CASHMERE. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 

With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 

Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 

As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hung  over  their  wave? 

Oh !  to  see  it  at  sunset, — when  warm  o'er  the  Lake 
Its  splendour  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 

Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  ling'ring  to  take 
A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes  !— 

When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming  half 
shown. 

And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 

Here  the  music  of  pray'r  fi-om  a  minaret  swells, 


96  LIFE    SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Here  the  Magian  his  urn,  full  of  perfume,  is  swinging, 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight, — when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines ; 
When  the  water-falls  gleam,  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  people 

meet. — 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  call'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  if  but  just  born  of  the  Sun. 
When  the  Spirit  of  Fragance  is  up  with  the  day. 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  stealing  away ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees,  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurl'd, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  bliss  to  the  world ! 

LIGHT   CAUSES   MAY    CREATE    DISSENSION. 

Alas ! — how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied  ; 

That  stood  the  storm,  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off. 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 

A  something,  light  as  air — a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken — 
Oh !  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin ; 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  97 

And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds,— or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow, 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below. 

Breaks  into  floods,  that  part  for  ever. 

SONG   OF   THE   ARAB   MAID. 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 

Oitr  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 

But,  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 

Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair. 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  lov'd  the  less 
For  flow'ring  in  a  wildeniess. 

Oar  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silv'ry-footed  antek)pe 
As  gracefully  and  gaily  sjjrings 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  lov'd  and  lone  acacia-tree. 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

Oh !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes, 
Predestin'd  to  have  all  our  sighs, 


98  LIPE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE, 

And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then ! 

So  came  thy  ev'ry  glance  and  tone 
When  fii'st  on  me  they  breath'd  and  shone ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  lov'd  for  years. 

Then  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  .thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me. 
Is  pvire  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  foi'sake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  "worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place; — 

Then,  fare  thee  well — I'd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine ! 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

NATIONAL  AIRS  AND    SACRED    MELODIES — VISIT    TO    PARIS — THE 
FUDGE   FAMILY — SLOPERTON — TRUE    CHARITY. 

National  Airs,  a  volume  of  poems,  containing  "Flow 
on,  thou  Shining  River,"  "All  that's  Bright  must  Fade," 
"Those  Evening  Bells,"  "Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  and 
others,  was  published  in  1815. 

From  it  we  select  the  followins;: — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

HARK!  THE  VESPER  HYMN  IS  STEALING. 

RUSSIAN   AIR. 

Hark !  the  vesper  hymn  is  stealing 

O'er  the  waters  soft  and  clear; 
Nearer  yet  and  nearer  pealing, 
And  now  bursts  upon  the  ear : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Farther  now,  now  farther  stealing, 
Soft  it  fades  upon  the  ear : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 

Now,  like  moonlight  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,  it  dies  along ; 
Now,  like  angry  surges  meeting, 
Breaks  the  mingled  tide  of  song : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Hush !  again,  like  waves,  retreating 
To  the  shore,  it  dies  along : 
Jubilate,  Amen. 

REASON,   FOLLY,  AND  BEAUTY. 

ITALIAN   AIR. 

Reason,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty,  they  say, 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day : 

Folly  play'd 

Around  the  maid, 
The  bells  of  his  cap  rang  merrily  out; 

While  Reason  took 

To  his  sermon-book — 
Oh!  which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt, 
Which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt. 

Beauty,  who  likes  to  be  thought  very  sage, 
Turn'd  for  a  moment  to  Reason's  dull  page. 

Till  Folly  said, 

"  Look  here,  sweet  maid ! " — 
The  sight  of  his  cap  brought  her  back  to  herself ; 


IQO  LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

While  Eeason  read 

His  leaves  of  lead, 
With  no  one  to  mind  him,  jjoor  sensible  elf ! 
No,— no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf ! 

Then  Reason  grew  jealous  of  Folly's  gay  cap; 
Had  he  that  on,  he  her  heart  might  entx'ap — 

"  There  it  is," 

Quoth  Folly,  " old  quiz!" 
(Folly  was  always  good-natured,  'tis  said,) 

"  Under  the  sun 

There's  no  such  fun, 
As  Eeason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head, 
Eeason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head!" 

But  Eeason  the  head-dress  so  awkwardly  woie. 
That  Beauty  now  lik'd  him  still  less  than  before; 

While  Folly  took 

Old  Eeason's  book, 
And  twisted  the  leaves  in  a  cap  of  such  ton. 

That  Beauty  vow'd 

(Though  not  aloud), 
She  lik'd  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own. 
Yes, — lik'd  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own. 

OH,  COME  TO  ME  WHEN  DAYLIGHT  SETS 

VENETIAN   AIR. 

Oh,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets ; 

Sweet!  then  come  to  me, 
When  smoothly  go  our  gondolets 

O'er  the  moonlight  sea. 
When  Mirth's  awake,  and  Love  begins, 

Beneath  that  glancing  ray, 
With  sound  of  lutes  and  mandolins. 

To  steal  young  hearts  away. 
Then,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets; 

Sweet!  then  come  to  me. 
When  smoothly  go  our  gondolets 

O'er  the  mooidight  sea- 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  101 

Oh,  then's  the  houi-  for  those  who  love, 

Sweet!  like  thee  and  me; 
When  all's  so  calm  below,  above. 

In  heav'n  and  o'er  the  sea. 
When  maidens  sing  sweet  barcarolles 

And  Echo  sings  again 
So  sweet,  that  all  with  ears  and  souls 

Should  love  and  listen  then. 
So,  come  to  me  when  daylight  sets ; 

Sweet!  then  come  to  me. 
When  smoothly  go  our  gondoleta 

O'er  the  moonlight  sea. 

ALL  THAT'S   BEIGHT  MUST   FADE. 

INDIAN   AIR. 

All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  bi'ightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made, 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest. 
Stars  that  shine  and  fall ; — 

The  flower  that  drops  in  springing ; — 
These,  alas!  are  types  of  all 

To  which  our  hearts  are  clinging. 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  briglitest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest! 

Who  would  seek  or  prize 

Delights  that  end  in  aching? 
Who  would  trust  to  ties 

That  every  hour  are  breaking? 
Better  far  to  be 

In  utter  darkness  lying, 
Than  to  be  bless'd  with  light  and  see 

That  light  for  ever  flying. 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 


102  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS  MOORE. 

All  that's  sweet  was  made 
But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest! 

OFT,   IN  THE   STILLY  NIGHT. 

SCOTCH  AIR. 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone. 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintiy  weather ; 
I  feel  like  one. 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  me  dejmrted! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  bi-ings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

In  1816  appeared  two  series  of  Sacred  Melodies.     From 
these,  we  quote  two  songs : — 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  103 

MIRIAM'S   SONG. 

"  And  ^iiriam  the  Prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her 
hand ;  and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her  with  timbrels  and  with  dances." 
—Ex  XV.  20. 

Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea! 

Jehovah  has  triumph'd — his  people  are  free. 

Sing — for  the  pride  of  the  Tyrant  is  broken, 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave. 
How  vain  was  their  boast,  for  the  Lord  hath  but  spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea; 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord! 

His  word  was  our  aiTow,  his  breath  was  our  sword. — 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 
For  the  Lord  hath  look'd  out  from  his  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in  the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  Timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dai'k  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — his  people  are  free. 

THIS   WOELD   IS   ALL  A  FLEETING  SHOW. 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given ; 
The  smiles  of  Joy,  the  tears  of  Woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There's  nothing  true,  but  Heaven! 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume. 

As  fading  hues  of  Even ; 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom, 
Are  blossoms  gather'd  for  the  tomb — 

There's  nothing  bright,  but  Heaven  I 
Poor  waud'rers  of  a  stormy  day! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven. 
And  Fancy's  flash  and  Reason's  ray, 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 

There's  nothing  calm,  but  Heaven! 


104  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

These  last  lines,  Moore  himself  believed  to  be  the  finest 
of  all  his  compositions;  and  that  opinion,  at  all  events, 
sincerely  indicated  the  current  of  his  matured  thought, 
and  the  direction  of  his  aspirations. 

After  the  splendid  success  of  Lalla  RooJch,  in  holiday 
mood,  Moore,  leaving  his  wife  at  Hornsey,  accepted  from 
Rogers  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  his  carriage,  and  set  out,  in 
1817,  for  a  visit  to  Paris.  The  Bourbon  dynasty  had 
just  been  restored;  society  was  in  a  chaotic  state,  and 
Paris  swarmed  with  English,  whose  ridiculous  cockneyism 
and  nonsense  furnished  him  with  materials  for  the  letters 
entitled  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris,  published  the  follow- 
ing year  (in  1818),  and  consisting  of  a  happy  blending  of 
the  political  squib  and  the  social  burlesque. 

Of  it  Moore  says,  "Making  its  appearance  at  such  a 
crisis,  the  work  brought  with  it  that  best  seasoning  of  all 
such  jeiix-d' esprit,  the  a-jnvpos  of  the  moment;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, in  the  race  of  successive  editions  Lalla  Rookh 
was,  for  some  time,  kept  pace  with,  by  Miss  Biddy  Fudge." 

As  a  specimen,  we  give  Miss  Biddy  Fudge's  last 
epistle : — 

"  Four  o'clock. 
"  Oh,  Dolly,  dear  Dolly,  I'm  ruin'd  for  ever — 
I  ne'er  shall  be  happy  again,  Dolly,  never! 
To  think  of  the  wretch — what  a  victim  was  I ! 
'Tis  too  much  to  endure — I  shall  die,  I  shall  die — 
My  brain's  in  a  fever — my  pulses  beat  quick — 
I  shall  die,  or,  at  least,  be  exceedingly  sick ! 
Oh,  what  do  you  think  ?  after  all  my  romancing, 
My  visions  of  glory,  my  sighing,  my  glancing, 
This  Colonel — I  scarce  can  commit  it  to  paper — 
This  Colonel's  no  more  than  a  vile  linen-draper ! ! 
'Tis  true  as  I  live — I  had  coax'd  brother  Bob  so, 
(You'll  hardly  make  out  what  I'm  writing,  I  sob  so), 
For  some  little  gift  on  my  birth-day — September 
The  tliirtieth,  dear,  I'm  eighteen,  you  remember — 


LIFE  SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  105 

That  Bob  to  a  shop  kindly  order'd  the  coach, 

(Ah,  little  I  thought  who  the  shopman  would  prove). 
To  bespeak  me  a  few  of  those  mouchoirs  dc  poche, 

Which,  in  happier  hours,  I  have  sigh'd  for,  my  love — 
(Tlie  most  beautiful  things — two  Napoleons  the  price — 
And  one's  name  in  the  corner  embroider'd  so  nice !) 
Well,  with  heart  full  of  pleasui-e,  I  enter'd  the  shop. 
But — ye  Gods,  what  a  phantom  ! — I  thought  I  should 

drop — 
There  he  stood,  my  dear  Dolly — no  room  for  a  doubt — 

There,  behind  the  vile  counter,  these  eyes  saw  him  stand, 
With  a  piece  of  French  cambric,  before  him  roU'd  out. 

And  that  horrid  yard-measure  uprais'd  in  his  haud ! 
Oh — Papa,  all  along,  knew  the  secret,  'tis  clear — 
'Twas  a  shopman  he  meant  by  a  "  Brandenburgh,"  dear  ! 
The  man,  whom  I  fondly  had  fancied  a  King, 

And,  when  that  too  delightful  illusion  was  past, 
As  a  hero  who  worshipp'd — vile,  ti^eacherous  thing — 

To  turn  out  but  a  low  linen-draper  at  last ! 
My  head  swam  around — the  wretch  smil'd,  I  believe. 
But  his  smiling,  alas,  could  no  longer  deceive — 
I  fell  back  on  Bob — my  whole  heart  seem'd  to  wither — 
And,  pale  as  a  ghost,  I  was  carried  back  hither ! 
I  only  remember  that  Bob,  as  I  caught  him. 

With  cruel  facetiousness  said,  '  Curse  the  Kiddy ! 
A  staunch  Revolutionist  always  I've  thought  him, 

But  now  I  find  out  he's  a  Counter  one,  Biddy !' 

"  Only  think,  my  dear  creature,  if  this  should  be  known 
To  that  saucy,  satirical  thing.  Miss  Malone  ! 
What  a  story  'twill  be  at  Shandangan  for  ever ! 

What  laughs  and  what  quizzing  she'll  have  with  the  men ! 
It  will  spread  through  the  country — and  never,  oh,  never 

Can  Biddy  be  seen  at  Kilrandy  again ! 
Farewell — I  shall  do  something  desp'rate,  I  fear — 
And,  ah !  if  my  fate  ever  reaches  your  ear. 
One  tear  of  compassion  my  Doll  will  not  grudge 
To  her  poor — broken-hearted — young  friend, 

Biddy  Fudge. 


106  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  Nota  bene — I  am  sui^e  you  will  hear,  with  delight, 
That  we're  going,  all  three,  to  see  Bruiiet  to-night, 
A  laugh  will  revive  me — and  kind  Mr.  Cox 
(Do  you  know  him  ?)  has  got  us  the  Governor's  box." 

The  Fudge  Family  was  once  amusing;  but  it  is  the 
natural  fate  of  ephemeral  satire  to  perish  with  the  events 
which  gave  rise  to  it.  This  work  was  succeeded,  in  1819, 
by  the  publication  of  Tom  Crib's  Memorial  to  Congress. 

On  his  return  from  his  continental  tour,  he  was  urged 
by  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  his  ever-constant  friend, 
to  come  and  live  near  him;  and  he,  accordingly,  took 
Sloperton  Cottage,  near  Devizes  and  contiguous  to  his 
friend's  beautiful  demesne  of  Bowood,  in  Wiltshire. 

He  took  possession  of  it  in  November,  1817,  and  it 
was  his  only  home  in  England  till  his  death  in  1852. 

From  Sloperton  he  writes  to  Corry  on  December  8th, 
1817, — "  We  have  got  a  very  snug'little  thatched  cottage 
here,  which  Lord  Lansdowne  most  friendlily  volunteered 
to  find  out  for  us.  I  pay  for  it,  furnished,  but  forty 
pounds  a  year,  and  yet  I  think  it  promises  to  be  by  far 
the  most  comfortable  dwelling  we  have  had.  Lord 
Lansdowne's  library  is  within  a  moderate  walk  of  me, 
and  as  most  of  my  London  friends  come  down  to  visit 
him  in  the  course  of  the  year,  I  shall  have  just  those 
glimpses  of  society  which  throw  a  light  over  one's  solitude, 
and  enliven  it." 

Subsequently  he  became  its  tenant  under  a  repairing 
lease  at  £18  annual  rent.  It  was  originally  a  labourer's 
dwelling  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  delightful  coilntry 
half  buried  among  the  trees  of  a  wooded  lane;  yet,  from 
its  upper  windows,  as  well  as  from  its  garden,  obtaining 
peeps,  of  retired  slopes,  woodland  hollows,  and  lovely  old 
English  scenes,  through  between  their  branches.  "It  has 
a  small  garden  and  lawn  in  front,  and  a  kitchen-garden 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOOKK.  107 

behind;  along  two  sides  of  this  kitchen-garden  is  a  raised 
bank."  It  ran  the  whole  length,  was  bounded  by  a  laurel 
hedge,  and  was  called  by  the  poet  the  "terrace  walk." 
There,  a  small  deal  table  stood  through  all  Aveathers;  for 
it  was  his  custom  to  compose  as  he  walked;  and,  at  this 
table,  to  pause  and  write  down  his  thoughts ;  here,  too, 
he  delighted  to  watch  the  setting  sun — a  sight  which, 
Mrs.  Moore  tells  us,  he  very  rarely  missed.  The  poet's 
study  was  upstairs.  "  Views  of  Sloperton  Cottage  every 
one  has  seen;  but  it  is  only  when  you  stand  actually 
before  it,  see  it  covered  with  clematis,  its  two  porches 
hung  with  roses,  and  the  lawn  and  garden  which  sor- 
rounded  it  kept  in  the  most  exquisite  order,  and  fragrant 
with  every  flower  of  the  season,  that  you  are  fully 
sensible  of  what  a  genuine  poet's  nest  it  is."  So  Avrote 
William  Howitt,  of  Moore's  Cottage;  and  Moore  himself 
described  it  as — 

"  That  dear  house,  that  saving  ark 

Where  Love's  true  light  at  last  I  found ; 
Cheering  within  when  all  grows  dark, 
And  comfortless,  and  stormy  round." 

The  following  letter  affords  a  pleasing  glimpse  of  life 
in  his  cottage  home,  and  of  Mrs.  Moore,  who  Avas,  as 
Moore  said  of  her,  "independent  to  the  heart's  core." 

"  Sloperton  Cottage,  Jan.  9,  1818. 
"  We  are  getting  on  here  as  quietly  and  comfortably  as 
possible ;  and  the  only  thing  I  regret  is  the  want  of  some  near 
and  plain  neighbours  for  Bessy  to  make  intimacy  with,  and 
enjoy  a  little  tea-drinking  now  and  then,  as  she  used  to  do  in 
Derbyshire.  She  continues,  however,  to  employ  herself  very 
well  without  them;  and  her  favourite  task,  of  cutting  out 
things  for  the  poor  people,  is  here  even  in  greatei-  requisition 
than  we  bargained  for,  as  there  never  was  such  wretchedness 
in  any  place  whei'e  we  have  been ;  and  the  better  class  of 


108  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

people  (with  but  one  or  two  exceptions)  seem  to  consider  their 
contributions  to  the  poor-rates  as  abundantly  sufficient,  with- 
out making  any  further  exertions  towards  the  relief  of  the 
poor  wretches.  It  is  a  pity  Bessy  has  not  more  means,  for  she 
takes  the  true  method  of  charity, — that  of  going  herself  into 
the  cottages,  and  seeing  what  they  are  most  in  want  of.  .  .  . 
She  is,  however,  very  much  pleased  both  with  Lord  and  Lady 
Lansdowne ;  who  have,  indeed,  been  everything  that  is  kind 
and  amiable  to  her." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BERMUDA   TROUBLES — CONTINENTAL  VISIT — SOJOURN   AT  PARIS. 

Moore  had  not  been  long  settled  in  Sloperton  Cottage 
when  intelligence  reached  him  that  the  dejiuty  whom  he 
had  appointed  at  Bermuda  had,  by  embezzlement,  in- 
volved him  in  a  debt  of  £6000  for  which  he  was  re- 
sponsible.    Friends  at  once  offered  Moore  pecuniary  aid. 

He  had,  unfortunately,  neglected  the  common  business 
precaution  of  requiring  security  from  his  deputy,  and  had 
only  his  pen  by  which  to  retrieve  himself,  so  that,  trust- 
ing to  it,  he  resolved  gratefully  to  decline  many  pressing 
offers  of  assistance,  and  endeavoured  to  work  out  his 
deliverance  entirely  by  his  own  efforts.  Of  this  period 
he  writes: — "I  was  more  than  consoled  for  all  such 
embarrassment,  were  it  even  ten  times  as  much,  by  the 
eager  kindness  with  which  friends  pressed  forward  to 
help  to  release  me  from  my  difficulties.  ...  I  shall 
so  far  lift  the  veil  in  which  such  delicate  generosity  seeks 
to  shroud  itself,  as  to  mention  briefly  the  manner  in 
which  one  of  these  kind  friends — himself  possessing  but 
limited  means — proposed  to  contribute  to  the  object  of 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  109 

relieving  me  from  my  embarrassments.  After  adverting  in 
his  letter  to  my  misfortunes,  and  '  the  noble  way,'  as  he 
was  pleased  to  say,  '  in  which  I  bore  them,'  he  adds, — 
'  would  it  be  very  impertinent  to  say  that  I  have  .£500 
entirely  at  your  disposal,  to  be  paid  when  you  like;  and 
as  much  more  that  I  could  advance  upon  any  reasonable 
security,  payable  in  seven  years'?'  The  writer  concludes 
by  apologizing  anxiously  and  delicately  for  '  the  liberty 
which  he  thus  takes,'  assuring  me  that  he  would  not  have 
made  the  offer  if  he  did  not  feel  that  he  would  most 
readily  accept  the  same  assistance  from  me." 

The  Avriter  of  this  letter  was  Lord  Jeffrey,  whom 
Moore  had  formerly  challenged,  and  the  communication  is 
altogether  so  creditable  to  both  parties  that  we  here  pre- 
sent the  whole : — 

"  Jordan's,  St.  James'  Street, 

"Tuesday,  May  30,  1818. 

"  My  Dear  Moore, — What  I  inclose  has  been  justly  owing 
you,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  ever  since  you  v/ere  so  kind  as  to 

send  me  tliat  account  of  M.  de  J ,  I  do  not  know  how 

long  ago ;  but  I  did  not  know  your  address,  and  I  neglect 
everything.  Will  you  let  me  hope  for  a  contribution  from 
you  some  day  soon? 

"  I  cannot  from  my  heart  resist  adding  another  word. 
I  have  heard  of  your  misfortunes,  and  of  the  noble  way  you 
bear  them.  Is  it  very  imj^ertinent  to  say  that  I  have  ,£500 
entirely  at  your  service,  which  you  may  rejaay  when  you  please; 
and  as  much  more,  which  I  can  advance  upon  any  reasonable 
security  of  repayment  in  seven  years? 

"  Perhaps  it  is  very  uni)ardonable  in  me  to  say  this ;  but 
upon  my  honour  I  would  not  make  you  the  offer  if  I  did  not 
feel  that  I  would  accept  it  without  scruple  from  you. 

"  At  all  events,  pray  don't  be  angry  with  me,  and  don't  send 
me  a  letter  beginning  Sir.  I  shall  ask  your  pardon  with  the 
truest  submission  if  I  have  offended  you ;  but  I  trust  I  have 
not.   At  all  events,  and  however  this  ends,  no  living  soul  shall 


110  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE,. 

ever  know  of  my  presumption  but  yourself.     Believe  me,  with 
great  respect  and  esteem,  very  faithfully  yours, 

"  i\  Jeffrey." 

Sir  William  Napier,  the  historian,  also  wrote: — "My 
Dear  Moore, — Knowing  your  feelings  about  pecuniary 
affairs,  I  feel  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  that  I  have  several 
hundred  pounds  at  my  bankers;  that  there  is  not  the 
slightest  chance  of  my  w^anting  them,  for  a  year  at  least; 
and  until  your  affairs  are  arranged  with  Murray,  I  do 
hope  that  you  will  not  be  offended  if  I  say  they  are  at 
your  service. — AVm.  Napier."  And  this  entry  occurs  in 
one  of  Moore's  memorandum-books: — "Without  enter- 
ing into  particulars  on  this  subject,  I  will  only  say,  that 
when  my  embarrassment  wore  its  worst  aspect,  Lord 
Lansdowne  came  forward  to  take  the  whole  weight  of  my 
loss,  whatever  it  might  be,  on  himself."  Such  are  fine 
examples  of  the  chivalry  of  friendship;  and  Moore's 
setting  them  aside,  and  resolving  to  help  himself  by  his 
pen,  was  as  chivalrous. 

About  this  period  we  find  the  following  ixiteresting 
memoranda  in  his  diary : — 

COMPOSING   IN    BED. 

"Feb.  21, 1819. — Breakfasted  in  bed  for  the  purpose  of  has- 
tening the  remainder  of  my  '  Crib'  work.  It  is  singular  the  dif- 
ference that  bed  makes,  not  only  in  the  facility,  but  the  fayicy 
of  what  I  write.  Whether  it  be  the  horizontal  position  (which 
Eicheraud,  the  French  physiologist,  says  is  most  favourable 
to  thought),  or  more  probably  the  removal  of  all  those  external 
objects  that  divert  the  attention,  it  is  certain  that  the  effect 
is  always  the  same ;  and  if  I  did  not  find  that  it  relaxed  me 
exceedingly,  I  should  pass  half  my  days  in  bed  for  the  purpose 
of  composition." 

A  French  author,  M.  de  Valois,  in  a  Latin  poem  asserts, 
although  on  what  authority  we  know  not,  that  Herodotus 
and  Plato  studied  in  bed. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  Ill 

MOORe's   music — NATIONAL   MELODIES. 

"9th  June,  1819. — Met  Bishop  by  apiDoiutmeiit  at  Power's, 
in  order  for  him  to  look  over  the  national  melodies  I  have 
done,  and  take  my  ideas  as  to  their  arrangement.  This  being 
our  first  time  of  working  together,  I  felt  rather  nervous ;  but 
he  appears  everything  I  could  wish;  intelligent,  accommodat- 
ing, and  quick  at  understanding  my  wishes  upon  the  subject. 
One  thing  flattered  me  a  good  deal :  among  the  airs  I  produced 
to  him,  I  had  stolen  in  one  of  my  own,  under  the  disguise  of 
a  Swedish  air.  It  was  the  last  I  brought  forward,  and  he 
had  scarcely  played  two  bars  of  it  when  he  exclaimed,  '  Deli- 
cious ! '  and  when  he  finished  it,  said, '  This  is  the  sweetest  air 
you  have  selected  yet.'  I  could  not  help  telling  him  the  truth 
about  it ;  and,  indeed,  I  doubt  very  much  whether  I  shall  go 
on  with  the  imposture  by  introducing  it  into  the  collection. 
If  I  do,  I  shall  call  it  a  Moorish  air." 

"July  14th,  1819.— Dined  with  Power  (Strand)  to  meet 
Bishop,  who  brought  two  more  of  the  airs  he  has  arranged.  He 
mentioned  a  good  story  to  prove  how  a  musician's  ear  requires 
the  extreme  seventh  to  be  resolved.  Sebastian  Bach,  one 
morning,  getting  out  of  bed  for  some  purpose,  ran  his  fingers 
over  the  keys  of  the  pianoforte  as  he  passed,  but  when  he 
returned  to  bed  he  found  he  could  not  sleep.  It  was  in  vain 
he  tossed  and  turned  about.  At  length  he  recollected  that 
the  last  chord  he  struck  was  that  of  the  seventh ;  he  got  up 
again,  resolved  it,  and  then  went  to  bed  and  slept  as  comfort- 
ably as  he  could  desire." 

In  Diary,  July,  .1819,  Moore  drolly  mentions  that 
"  George  Dyer,  in  despair  of  getting  any  one  to  listen  to 
him  reading  his  own  poetry,  at  last,  when  Dr.  Graham 
came  into  the  neighbourhood  with  his  plan  of  burying 
people  up  to  the  neck  in  the  earth  and  leaving  them 
there  some  hours  (as  a  mode  of  cure  for  some  disease), 
took  advantage  of  the  situation  of  these  patients,  and 
went  and  read  to  them  all,  while  they  were  thus  stuck 
in  the  earth!!!" 


112  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Meanwhile  an  attachment  had  issued  against  Moore 
from  the  Court  of  Admiralty;  and  as  negotiations  were 
about  to  be  opened  with  the  American  claimants  for  a 
reduction  of  their  large  demand  on  him — a  sum  supposed 
at  that  time  to  amount  to  six  thousand  pounds — it  was 
deemed  necessary,  that,  pending  the  treaty,  in  order  to 
avoid  arrest,  he  should  sojourn  for  a  time  on  the  Conti- 
nent. So,  in  September,  1819,  Moore  started  off,  setting 
out  with  Lord  John  Eussell,  for  the  Simplon  and  Italy. 
Of  this  tour  he  writes  in  his  diary : — 

"27th  Sept.,  1819.— Arrived  at  Brieg,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Simplon ;  an  oriental-looking  little  place,  with  its  spires  and 
towers.  Ascended  the  Simplon,  which  baffles  all  description. 
A  road  carried  up  into  the  very  clouds,  over  torrents  and 
precipices ;  nothing  was  ever  like  it.  At  the  last  stage,  befoi-e 
we  reached  the  barrier  on  the  summit,  walked  on  by  myself, 
and  saw  such  a  scene  of  sunset  as  I  shall  never  forget.  That 
mighty  panorama  of  the  Alps,  whose  summits  there,  indistinctly 
seen,  looked  like  the  top  of  gigantic  waves,  following  close 
upon  each  other ;  the  soft  lights  falling  on  those  green  spots 
which  cultivation  has  conjured  up  in  the  midst  of  this  wild 
scene ;  the  painted  top  of  the  Jungfrau,  whose  snows  were 
then  pink  with  the  setting  sun ;  all  was  magnificent  to  a  degree 
that  quite  overpowered  me,  and  I  alternately  shuddered  and 
shed  tears  as  I  looked  upon  it.  Just,  too,  as  we  arrived  near 
the  snows  on  the  very  summit,  the  moon  rose  beautifully  over 
them,  and  gave  a  new  sort  of  glory  to  the  scene." 

"  I  shall  never  forget,"  says  Lord  John  Russell,  "  the 
day  when  I  hurried  him  on,  from  a  post-house  in  the  Jura 
mountains,  to  get  a  first  view  of  the  Alps  at  sunset,  and 
on  coming  up  to  him,  found  him  speechless  and  in  tears, 
overcome  with  the  sublimity  of  Mont  Blanc." 

At  Milan  they  met  Lord  Kinnaird,  thence.  Lord  John 
went  to  Genoa,  and  Moore  proceeded  to  Venice  to  meet 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  113 

Lord  Byron.  At  Eome,  the  two  poets  explored  the 
works  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  under  the  personal 
guidance  of  men  such  as  Canova,  Chantrey,  Turner, 
Lawrence,  Jackson,  and  Eastlake. 

When  in  Italy,  he  entered  in  his  private  journal — 
"Got  letters  from  my  sweet  Bessy,  more  precious  to  me 
than  all  the  wonders  I  can  see;"  and  while  in  Paris, 
when  sending  for  Bessy  and  his  little  ones,  he  signifi- 
cantly added — "  Wherever  they  are  will  be  home,  and  a 
happy  home  to  me." 

On  returning  from  Rome  to  Paris  in  January,  1820, 
he  was  there  joined  by  his  family,  and  settled  down  to 
literary  work.  During  the  nearly  three  years  he  lived  in 
Paris,  his  life  was  precisely  the  same  as  when  in  England, 
one  continued  round  of  visiting  amongst  the  English 
aristocracy  and  travellers  who  came  there.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  busy  on  The  Life  of  Sheridan,  The  Epicurean, 
Pihymes  on  the  Road,  The  Loves  of  the  Angels,  &c.,  which 
were  published  at  a  later  period. 

To  illustrate  this  portion  of  his  life,  we  cull  the  follow- 
ing characteristic  entries  from  his  Diary  : — 

May,  1820  (in  Paris): — "A  person  meeting  a  friend 
running  through  the  rain  with  an  umbrella  over  him, 
said,  'Where  are  you  running  to  in  such  a  hurry,  like 
a  mad  mushroom  1 '  " 

Sept.  11,  1820. — In  Paris,  visited  the  P^re  la  Chaise. 
Afterwards  "gave  them  a  dinner  at  the  Cadran  Bleu 
(Bessy,  Dumoulin,  Miss  Wilson,  Anastasia,  and  Dr. 
Yonge's  little  girl),  and  took  them  afterwards  to  the 
Porte  St.  Martin.  Iced  punch  on  our  way  home.  The 
whole  cost  me  about  three  Napoleons — just  what  I  ought 
to  have  reserved  for  the  Voyages  de  Pythagore.  Bessy, 
however,  told  me  when  we  came  home  that  she  had  saved 
by  little   pilferings   from   me,   at   different   times,   four 


114  LIFE   SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Napoleons,  and  that  I  should  have  them  now  to  buy 
those  books." 

On  14th  Oct.,  1820,  in  Paris,  after  going  to  their  new 
home  in  the  Allee  des  Veuves,  we  find  the  following  entry 
in  his  diary  : — "  We  dined  alone  with  our  little  ones,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  first  of  July,  which  was  a  very 
great  treat  to  both  of  us;  and  Bessy  said,  in  going  to 
bed,  '  This  is  the  first  rational  day  we  have  had  for  a  long 
time.' "  To  this  entry  Lord  John  Russell  appends  the 
following  note : — "Mrs.  Moore  was  quite  right :  in  reading 
over  the  diary  of  dinners,  balls,  and  visits  to  the  theatre, 
I  feel  some  regret  in  reflecting  that  I  had  some  hand 
in  persuading  Moore  to  prefer  France  to  Holyrood.  His 
universal  popularity  was  his  chief  enemy." 

15th  April,  1821. — "Dawson  told  a  good  story  of  an 
Irish  landlord  counting  out  the  change  of  a  guinea  : — 
'  Twelve,  thirteen,  fourteen ' — (a  shot  heard) — '  Bob,  go 
and  see  who's  that  that's  killed;'  'fifteen,  sixteen,  -seven- 
teen'— (enter  Bob)— 'It's  Kelly,  sir.'  'Poor  Captain  Kelly 
— a  very  good  customer  of  mine — eighteen,  nineteen, 
twenty — there's  your  change,  sir.' " 

9th  May,  1821.— "It  is  said  of  Madame  Talleyrand,  that 
one  day  her  husband  having  told  her  that  Denon  was 
coming  to  dinner,  bid  her  read  a  little  of  his  book  upon 
Egypt,  just  published,  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to 
say  something  civil  to  him  upon  it,  adding  that  he  would 
leave  the  volume  for  her  on  his  own  study  table.  He 
forgot  this,  however,  and  Madame,  upon  going  into  the 
study,  found  a  volume  of  Eobinson  Crusoe  on  the  table 
instead,  which,  having  read  very  attentively,  she  was  not 
long  on  opening  upon  Denon  at  dinner  about  the  de?iert 
island,  his  manner  of  living,  &c.  &c.,  to  the  great  asto- 
nishment of  poor  Denon,  who  could  not  make  head  or 
tail  of  what  she  meant.     At  last,  upon  her  saying,  'Eh 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  115 

puis,  ce  cher  Vendredi ! '  he  perceived  she  took  him  for  no 
less  a  person  than  Robinson  Crusoe." 

4th  June,  1821. — "Kenny  said  that  'Antony  Pasquin' 
(who  was  a  very  dirty  fellow)  '  died  of  a  cold  caught  by 
washing  his  face.' " 

July  3,  1821. — "Before  dinner,  on  my  remarking  to 
Luttrel  a  fine  effect  of  sunshine  in  the  garden,  which 
very  soon  passed  away,  he  said,  '  How  often  in  life  we 
should  like  to  arrest  our  beaux  momens ;  should  be  so 
obliged  to  the  five  minutes  if  they  would  only  stay  ten.'" 

5th  July,  1821. — "Luttrel  told  of  an  Irishman,  who, 
having  jumped  into  the  water  to  save  a  man  from  drown- 
ing, upon  receiving  sixpence  from  the  person  as  a  reward 
for  the  service,  looked  first  at  the  sixpence,  then  at  him, 
and  at  last  exclaimed,  'By  Jasus,  I'm  ot^eq^aid  for  the 
job!'" 

5th  July,  1821. — "By  the  bye,  I  yesterday  gave  Lady 
Holland  Lord  Byron's  Memoirs  to  read ;  and  on  my  tell- 
ing her  I  rather  feared  he  had  mentioned  her  name  in  an 
unfair  manner  somewhere,  she  said,  '  Such  things  give  me 
no  uneasiness  :  I  know  perfectly  well  my  station  in  the 
world ;  and  I  know  all  that  can  lie  said  of  me.  As  long 
as  the  few  friends,  that  I  really  am  sure  of,  speak  kindly  of 
me  (and  I  would  not  believe  the  contrary  if  I  saw  it  in 
black  and  white),  all,  that  the  rest  of  the  world  can  say,  is 
a  matter  of  complete  indifference  to  me.' " 

26th  July,  1821.— "An  Irish  Story  from  Lattin.— A 
man  asked  another  to  come  and  dine  off  boiled  beef  and 
potatoes  with  him.  'That  I  will,'  says  the  other;  'and 
it's  rather  odd  it  should  be  exactly  the  same  dinner  I  had 
at  home  for  myself,  barring  the  beef.'" 

26th  July,  1821. — "Denon  told  an  anecdote  of  a  man 
who,  having  been  asked  repeatedly  to  dinner  by  a  person 
whom  he  knew  to  be  but  a  shabby  Amphitiyon,  went 


116  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

at  last,  and  found  the  dinner  so  meagre  and  bad,  that 
he  did  not  get  a  bit  to  eat.  When  the  dishes  were  re- 
moving, the  host  said,  '  Well,  now  the  ice  is  broken ;  I 
suppose,  you  will  ask  me  to  dine  with  you,  some  day.' 
'Most  willingly.'  'Name  your  day  then.'  'Aujourdliui 
par  exemple,'  answered  the  dinnerless  guest." 

On  same  date. — "Luttrel  told  of  a  good  phrase  of  an 
attorney's,  in  speaking  of  a  reconciliation  that  had  taken 
place  between  two  persons  whom  he  wished  to  set  by  the 
ears,  '  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  a  compromise  has 
broken  out  between  the  parties.'  " 

12th  Aug.,  1821. — "In  talking  to  Rogers  about  my 
living  in  Paris,  I  said,  '  One  would  not  enjoy  even  Para- 
dise, if  one  was  obliged  to  live  in  it.'  '  No,'  says  he ;  '  I 
dare  say,  when  Adam  and  Eve  were  turned  out,  they 
were  very  happy.' " 

13th  Oct.,  1821. — "  Story  of  a  man  asking  a  servant, 
'Is  your  master  at  home?'  'No  sir,  he's  out'  'Your 
mistress  1'  '  No  sir,  she's  out.'  '  Well,  I'll  just  go  in  and 
take  an  air  of  the  fire  till  they  come.'  'Faith,  sir,  that's 
out  too  ! ' " 

When  on  a  visit  to  London,  incog.,  on  Oct.  22,  1821, 
Ave  find  the  following  entry  in  his  diary:  —  "Letters 
from  Bess,  in  which,  alluding  to  Avhat  I  had  communi- 
cated to  her  of  Lord  Lansdowne's  friendship,  and  the 
probability  of  my  being  soon  liberated  from  exile,  she 
says : — '  God  bless  you,  my  own  free,  fortunate,  happy 
bird  (what  she  generally  calls  me),  but  remember  that 
your  cage  is  in  Paris,  and  that  your  mate  longs  for 
you.'" 

June  3d,  1822, — "Harry  Erskine  said  to  a  man  who 
found  him  digging  potatoes  in  his  garden,  '  This  is  what 
you  call  otium  cum  diggin'  a  tate/'" 

17th  Aug.,   1822.  —  "Received  to-day  a  letter  from 


LIFK   SKETCH   OF    THOMAS    MOORE.  117 

Brougham,  inclosing  one  from  Barnes  (the  editor  of  The 
Times),  proposing  that,  as  he  is  ill,  I  shall  take  his  place 
for  some  time  in  writing  the  leading  articles  of  that 
paper;  the  pay  to  be  £100  a  month.  This  is  flattering. 
To  be  thought  capable  of  wielding  so  powerful  a  political 
machine  as  The  Times  newspaper  is  a  tribute  the  more 
flattering  (as  is  usually  the  case)  from  my  feeling  con- 
scious that  I  do  not  deserve  it. 

18th. — "Wrote  to  decline  the  proposal  of  The  Times." 
And,  on  Sept.  1st,  1822,  he  notes  a  curious  illustration 
of  French  liberty.  When  dining  with  the  Bryans,  "a 
Frenchman  of  the  party,  a  Eoyalist,  told  of  a  girl  he 
walked  with  last  year,  at  the  hal  masqiii,  being  arrested 
while  with  him  for  having  a  tricolor  ribbon  on  her 
gown;  and  (as  he  since  found  out)  imprisoned  six  months; 
no  other  offence,  and  it  was  by  chance  the  poor  girl  put 
on  the  ribbon." 

Moore  was  in  seven  different  lodgings  in  or  near  Paris; 
but  the  dwelling  which  he  liked  best  was  a  cottage 
belonging  to  their  friends  the  Villamils,  at  La  Butte 
Coaslin,  near  Sevres,  which  they  occupied  for  some  time. 
It  reminded  him  of  Sloperton,  and  he  happily  defined  it 
by  a  quotation  from  Pope — 

"  A  little  cot  with  trees  a  row, 
And,  like  its  master,  very  low." 

Here  he  used  to  wander  in  the  park  of  St.  Cloud,  writing 
verses,  planning  chapters  of  the  Epicurean,  and  closing 
the  evening  by  practising  duets  with  the  lady  of  his 
Spanish  friend,  or  listening  to  her  guitar.  Kenney,  the 
dramatic  writer,  lived  near  them,  and  Washington 
Irving  visited  him  there. 

At  length,  in  September,  1822,  he  received  a  letter 
from  Rees,  of  Longmans,  informing  him  that  the  Ber- 


118  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

muda  defalcation  had  been  arranged,  and  that  he  might 
now  safely  return  to  England  when  he  pleased. 

The  claims  of  the  American  merchants  had  been  reduced 
from  £6000  to  £1000  or  £1200.  Mr.  Sheddon,  a  mer- 
chant in  London,  and  the  uncle  of  the  delinquent,  con- 
tributed £300;  and  the  Marc^uis  of  Lansdowne  the 
remainder.  There  was  afterwards  a  further  and  final 
claim  of  £200,  which  Lord  John  Russell  advanced.  The 
two  latter  sums,  however,  were  repaid  in  full,  by  Moore, 
from  the  balance  which  was  placed  to  his  credit  by  the 
Messrs.  Longmans  during  the  following  summer. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

RETURN  FROM  THE  CONTINENT  —  RHYMES  FOR  THE  ROAD  — 
FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE — LOVES  OP  THE  ANGELS. 

In  the  end  of  November,  1822,  Moore  returned  to 
Sloperton  Cottage,  in  Wiltshire;  and,  in  1823,  published 
Rhymes  for  the  Road,  with  Fables  for  the  Holy  Alliance, 
and  Loves  of  the  Angels,  which  he  had  written  when  in 
exile.  In  June  of  this  year,  his  publishers  placed  £1000 
to  his  credit  from  the  sale  of  the  last-named  work;  and 
£500  from  the  Fables  for  the  Holy  Alliance,  so  that 
he  was  able  not  only  to  clear  himself  from  debt,  but  to 
continue  to  assist  his  relatives. 

Rhymes  on  the  Road  is  a  series  of  clever  trifles — often 
graceful  and  pleasing,  but  occasionally  indelicate — con- 
versational and  unstudied,  and  often  "little  better," 
to  use  Moore's  own  words,  than  "prose  fringed  with 
rhyme."  We  select  the  following  four  from  Rhymes  on 
the  Road: — 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  119 

DIFFERENT  ATTITUDES  IN  WHICH  AUTHORS  COMPOSE. 

AVhat  various  attitudes,  and  ways, 

And  tricks,  we  autliors  have  in  writing ! 
While  some  write  sitting,  some,  like  Bayes, 

Usually  stand,  while  they're  inditing. 
Poets  there  are,  who  wear  the  floor  out, 

Measuring  a  line  at  every  stride ; 
While  some,  like  Henry  Stephens,  pour  out 

Rhymes  by  the  dozen,  while  they  ride. 
Herodotus  wrote  most  in  bed ; 

And  Richerand,  a  French  pliysician, 
Declares  the  clock-work  of  the  head 
Goes  best  in  that  reclin'd  j^osition. 
If  you  consult  Montaigne  and  Pliny  on 
The  subject,  'tis  their  joint  opinion 
That  Thought  its  richest  harvest  yields 
Abroad,  among  the  woods  and  fields ; 
That  bards,  who  deal  in  small  retail, 

At  home  may,  at  their  counters,  stop; 
But  that  the  grove,  tlie  hill,  the  vale, 

Are  Poesy's  true  wholesale  shop. 
And,  verily,  I  think  they're  right — 

For,  many  a  time,  on  summer  eves, 
Just  at  that  closing  hour  of  light, 

When,  like  an  Eastern  Prince,  who  leaves 
For  distant  war  his  Harem  bow'rs, 
The  Sun  bids  farewell  to  the  flow'rs. 

Whose  heads  are  sunk,  whose  tears  are  flowing 
Mid  all  the  gloiy  of  his  going ! — 
Ev'n  /  have  felt,  beneath  those  beams, 

When  wand'ring  through  the  fields  alone, 
Thoughts,  fancies,  intellectual  gleams. 

Which,  far  too  bright  to  be  my  own, 
Seem'd  lent  me  by  the  Sunny  Pow'r, 
That  was  abroad  at  that  still  hour. 

If  thus  I've  felt,  how  must  the;i  feel. 
The  few,  whom  genuine  Genius  warms; 


120  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Upon  whose  souls  he  stamps  his  seal, 

CTraven  with  Beauty's  countless  forms ; — 
The  few  upon  this  earth,  wlio  seem 
Born  to  give  truth. to  Plato's  dream. 
Since  in  their  thoughts,  as  in  a  glass. 

Shadows  of  heavenly  things  appear, 
Eeflections  of  bright  shapes  that  pass 
Through  other  worlds,  above  our  si^here ! 

Some  bards  there  are  who  cannot  scribble 
Without  a  glove,  to  tear  or  nibble ; 
Or  a  small  twig  to  whisk  about — 

As  if  the  hidden  founts  of  Fancy, 
Like  wells  of  old,  were  thus  found  out 

By  mystic  tricks  of  rhabdomancy. 
Such  was  the  little  feathery  wand, 
That,  held  for  ever  in  the  hand 
Of  her,  who  won  and  wore  the  crown 

Of  female  genius  in  this  age, 
Seem'd  the  conductor,  that  drew  down 

Those  words  of  lightning  to  her  page. 
As  for  myself — to  come,  at  last. 

To  the  odd  way  in  which  /  write — 
Having  employ'd  these  few  months  past 

Chiefly  in  travelling,  day  and  night, 
I've  got  into  the  easy  mode, 
Of  rhyming  thus  along  the  road — 
Making  a  way-bill  of  my  pages. 
Counting  my  stanzas  by  my  stages, 
'Twixt  lays  and  ?'e-lays  no  time  lost — 
In  short,  in  two  words,  writing  post. 

EXTEACT  I. 

'Twas  late — the  sun  had  almost  shone 
His  last  and  best,  when  I  ran  on. 
Anxious  to  reach  that  splendid  view, 
Befoi'e  the  day -beams  quite  withdrew; 
And  feelin"  as  all  feel,  on  first 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  121 

Approaching  scenes,  where,  they  are  told, 
Such  glories  on  their  eyes  will  burst, 
As  youthful  bards  in  dreams  behold. 

'Twas  distant  yet,  and,  as  I  ran, 

Full  often  was  my  wistful  gaze 
Turn'd  to  the  sun,  who  now  began 

To  call  in  all  his  outpost  rays. 
And  form  a  denser  march  of  light, 
Such  as  beseems  a  hero's  flight. 
Oh,  how  I  wish'd  for  Joshua's  pow'r, 
To  stay  the  brightness  of  that  hour ! 
But  no — the  sun  still  less  became, 

Dimiuish'd  to  a  speck,  as  splendid 
And  small  as  were  those  tongues  of  flame, 

That  on  th'  Apostles'  heads  descended ! 

'Twas  at  this  instant — while  there  glow'd 

This  last,  inteusest  gleam  of  light — 
Suddenly,  through  the  opening  road, 

The  valley  burst  upon  my  sight ! 
That  glorious  valley,  with  its  Lake, 

And  Alps  on  Alps  in  clusters  swelling, 
Mighty,  and  pure,  and  fit  to  make 

The  ramparts  of  a  Godhead's  dwelling. 

I  stood  entranc'd — as  Rabbins  say 
This  whole  assembled,  gazing  world 

Will  stand,  upon  that  awful  day. 

When  the  Ark's  Light,  aloft  unfurl'd, 

Among  the  opening  clouds  shall  shine, 

Divinity's  own  radiant  sign ! 

Mighty  Mont  Blanc,  thou  wert  to  me, 
That  minute,  with  thy  brow  in  heaven, 

As  sure  a  sign  of  Deity 

As  e'er  to  mortal  gaze  was  given. 

Nor  ever,  were  I  destin'd  yet 
To  live  my  life  twice  o'er  again, 

Can  I  the  deep-felt  awe  forget, 


122  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  dream,  the  trance  that  rapt  me  then ! 
'Twas  all  that  consciousness  of  jiow'r 
And  life,  beyond  this  mortal  hour ; — 
Those  mountings  of  the  soul  within 
At  thoughts  of  Heav'n — as  birds  begin 
By  instinct  in  the  cage  to  I'ise, 
When  near  their  time  for  change  of  skies ; — 
That  proud  assurance  of  our  claim 

To  rank  among  the  Sons  of  Light, 
Mingled  with  shame — oh  bitter  shame ! — 

At  having  risk'd  that  splendid  right, 

For  aught  that  earth  through  all  its  range 
Of  glories,  offers  in  exchange  ! 
'Twas  all  this,  at  that  instant  brought. 
Like  breaking  sunshine,  o'er  my  thought — 
'Twas  all  this,  kindled  to  a  glow 

Of  sacred  zeal,  which,  could  it  shine 
Thus  purely  ever,  man  might  grow, 

Ev'n  upon  earth  a  thing  divine. 
And  be,  once  more,  the  creature  made 
To  walk  unstain'd  th'  Elysian  shade ! 

No,  never  shall  I  lose  the  trace 

Of  what  I've  felt  in  this  bright  placa 

And,  should  my  spirit's  hojje  grow  weak, 

Should  I,  oh  God,  e'er  doubt  thy  pow'r, 
This  mighty  scene  again  I'll  seek, 

At  the  same  calm  arni  glowing  hour, 
And  here,  at  the  sublimest  shrine 

That  Nature  ever  rear'd  to  Thee, 
Rekindle  all  that  hope  divine, 

And  feel  my  immortality ! 

EXTEACT  IX. 

And  is  there  then  no  earthly  place, 
Where  we  can  rest,  in  dream  Elysian, 

Without  some  curst,  round  English  face, 
Popping  up  near,  to  break  the  vision? 

'Mid  northern  lakes,  'mid  southern  vines, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  123 

Unholy  cits  weVe  doom'd  to  meet; 
Nor  highest  Alps  nor  Apennines 

Are  sacred  from  Threadneedle  Street ! 

If  up  the  Simplon's  path  we  wind, 
Fancying  we  leave  tins  world  behind, 
Such  pleasant  sounds  salute  one's  ear 
As — "  Baddish  news  from  'Change,  my  dear — 
"  The  Funds — (phew,  curse  this  ugly  liill) — 
Are  low'ring  fast — (what,  higher  still  1) 
And — (zooks,  we're  mounting  up  to  heaven  !) — • 
Will  soon  be  down  to  sixty-seven." 

Go  where  we  may — rest  where  we  wiU, 

Eternal  London  haunts  us  stilL 

The  trash  of  Almack's  or  Fleet  Ditch — 

And  scarce  a  pin's  head  difference  ifhich — 

Mixes,  though  ev'u  to  Greece  we  run, 

With  every  rill  from  Helicon ! 

And,  if  this  rage  for  travelling  lasts, 

If  Cockneys,  of  all  sects  and  castes, 

Old  maidens,  aldermen,  and  squires, 

Will  leave  their  puddings  and  coal  fires, 

To  gape  at  things  in  foreign  lands. 

No  soul  among  them  understands ; 

If  Blues  desert  their  coteries, 

To  show  oif  'mong  the  Wahabees ; 

If  neither  sex  nor  age  controls. 

Nor  fear  of  Mamelukes  forbids 
Young  ladies,  with  pink  parasols, 

To  glide  among  the  pyramids — ■  ' 

Why,  then,  farewell  all  hope  to  find 
A  spot  that's  free  from  London-kind  ! 
Who  knows,  if  to  the  West  we  roam, 
.  But  we  may  find  some  Blue  "  at  home  " 
Among  the  Blacks  of  Carolina  — 
Or,  fiying  to  the  Eastward,  see 
Some  Mrs.  Hopkins,  taking  tea 

And  toast,  upon  the  Wall  of  China ! 

9 


124  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOOEE. 


EXTEACT  X. 

They  tell  me  thou'rt  the  favonr'd  guest 

Of  every  fair  and  brilliant  throng; 
No  wit  like  thine,  to  wake  the  jest. 

No  voice  like  thine,  to  breathe  the  song. 
And  none  conld  guess,  so  gay  thou  art, 
That  thou  and  I  are  far  apart. 
Alas,  alas,  how  ditf 'rent  flows, 

With  thee  and  me  the  time  away. 
Not  that  I  wish  thee  sad,  heaven  knows — 

Still,  if  thou  canst,  be  light  and  gay ; 
I  only  know  that  without  thee 
The  sun  himself  is  dark  for  me. 

Do  I  put  on  the  jewels  rai'e 

Thou'st  always  lov'd  to  see  me  wear? 

Do  I  perfume  the  locks  that  thou 

So  oft  hast  braided  o'er  my  brow. 

Thus  deck'd  through  festive  crowds  to  run, 

And  all  th'  assembled  world  to  see, — 
All  but  the  one,  the  absent  one, 

Worth  more  than  present  woiids  to  me ! 
No,  notliing  cheers  this  widow'd  heart — 
My  only  joy,  from  thee  apart. 
From  thee  thyself,  is  sitting,  hours 

And  days,  before  thy  pictur'd  form — 
That  dream  of  thee,  which  Raphael's  pow'rs 

Have  made  with  all  but  life-breath  warm  ! 
And  as  I  smile  to  it,  and  say 
The  words  I  speak  to  thee  in  play, 
I  fancy  from  their  silent  frame. 
Those  eyes  and  lips  give  back  the  same; 
And  still  I  gaze,  and  still  they  keep 
Smiling  thus  on  me — till  I  weep  ! 
Our  little  boy,  too,  knows  it  well, 

For  there  I  lead  him  every  day, 
And  teach  his  lisping  lips  to  tell 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  125 

The  name  of  one  that's  far  away. 
Forgive  me,  love,  but  thus  alone 
My  time  is  cheer'd,  while  thou  art  gone. 

From  Fables  for  the  Holy  Alliance,  we  give  a  part  of 
the  first  fable,  on  its  dissolution.  It  is  under  the  sem- 
blance of 

A  DEEAM. 

I've  had  a  dream  that  bodes  no  good 

Unto  the  Holy  Brotherhood. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  confess- 
As  far  as  it  is  right  or  lawful 

For  one,  no  conjurer,  to  guess — 
It  seems  to  me  extremely  awful. 

Methought,  upon  the  Neva's  flood 

A  beautiful  Ice  Palace  stood, 

A  dome  of  frost-work,  on  the  plan 

Of  that  once  built  by  Empress  Anne, 

Which  shone  by  moonlight — as  the  tale  is — 

Like  an  Aurora  Borealis. 

In  this  said  Palace,  furnish'd  all 
And  lighted  as  the  best  on  land  are, 

I  dreamt  there  was  a  splendid  Ball, 
Given  by  the  Emperor  Alexander, 

To  entertain  with  all  due  zeal. 

Those  holy  gentlemen,  who've  shown  a 

Regard  so  kind  for  Europe's  weal,  ^ 

At  Troppau,  Laybach,  and  Verona. 

The  thought  was  hapjiy — and  desigu'd 
To  hint  how  thus  the  human  Mind 
May,  like  the  stream  imprison'd  there, 
Be  check'd  and  chill'd,  till  it  can  bear 
The  heaviest  Kings,  that  ode  or  sonnet 
E'er  yet  beprais'd,  to  dance  upon  it. 

And  all  were  pleas'd,  and  cold,  and  stately, 
Shivering  in  grantl  ilhimination — 


126  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Admir'd  the  superstructure  greatly, 

Nor  gave  one  thought  to  the  foundation. 
Much  too  the  Czar  himself  exulted, 

To  all  plebeian  fears  a  stranger, 
For,  Madame  Krudener,  when  consulted, 

Had  pledged  her  word  there  was  no  daitger. 
So,  on  he  caper'd,  fearless  quite. 

Thinking  himself  extremely  clever, 
And  waltz'd  away  with  all  his  might, 

As  if  the  Frost  would  last  for  ever. 

These  humorous  and  satirical  collections  appeared  from 
time  to  time,  and  "were  all  genial  things  free  from  spite,"  for 
his  playful  fancy  was  "alive  to  the  points  suitable  for  ridi- 
cule, rather  than  to  the  ebullition  of  spleen.  The  shafts 
of  his  Avit  were  keen,  but  not  poisoned  at  the  point;  and 
though  they  pierced  thin-skinned  people,  left  no  rankling 
wound  behind  ...  his  own  personal  character  and 
friendships  were  never  compromised  by  these  sallies. 
The  wit  was  too  happy  to  bring  hate,  even  from  those  on 
whom  it  fell."  The  lightness  and  gaiety  of  his  satiric 
touch  have  often  been  characterized  as  unique.  Hazlitt, 
while  from  political  motives  lampooning  the  "  Melodies," 
was  reluctantly  forced  to  eulogize  these  poems,  and  de- 
scribed them  as  "essences"  and  "nests  of  spicery." 

In  contradistinction  to  Hazlitt's  mistaken  judgment  as 
to  the  "Melodies,"  it  has  been  well  said: — "It  is  the 
misfortune  of  the  writer  who  mixes  up  poetry  and  politics 
that  his  popularity  gains  for  a  present  generation  what  it 
loses  for  posterity.  Moore's  epistles,  satires,  despatches, 
&c.,  are  printed  in  his  works,  but  never  read;  while  the 
'Irish  Melodies'  are  such  gems  of  lyrical  composition  that 
they  rank  with  the  best  things,  of  their  kind,  the  language 
possesses." 

Of   Moore's   larger   poetical  works,  the  next   in   im 


LIFK   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  127 

portance  to  Lalla  liookh,  is  his  Loves  of  the  Angels,  an 
allegory  founded  on  the  eastern  story  of  the  angels  Ilarut 
and  Marut,  and  the  rabbinical  fictions  of  the  loves  of  Uz- 
ziel  and  Shamchazai. 

It  is  a  series  of  three  simple  stories,  arranged  so  as  to 
shadow  out  the  fall  of  the  soul  from  its  original  purity  in 
the  pursuit  of  this  world's  unsubstantial  pleasures;  and 
the  punishments,  from  conscience  and  Divine  justice, 
which  visit  those  Avho  presumptuously  pry  into  the  awful 
secrets  of  Heaven. 

There  is  considerable  poAver  displayed  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  that  fearful  catastrophe  which  closes  the  "Second 
Angel's  Story"  in  a  climax  of  horror.  All  the  three  are 
related  with  graceful  tenderness  and  passion;  but  his 
angels,  curiously  enough,  actually  fall,  over  head  and  ears, 
in  love  with  the  fairest  of  earth's  daughters. 

SONG  OF  IJLIS. 
From  the  Second  Angel's  Story 

Come,  pray  with  me,  my  seraph  love, 

My  angel-lord,  come  i^ray  with  me; 
In  vain  to-night  my  lip  hath  strove 
To  send  one  holy  prayer  above — 
The  knee  may  bend,  the  lip  may  move, 

But  pray  I  cannot,  without  thee! 
I've  fed  the  altar  in  my  bower 

With  di'oppings  from  the  incense  tree; 
I've  shelter'd  it  from  wind  and  shower, 
But  dim  it  burns  the  livelong  hour, 
As  if,  like  me,  it  had  no  power 

Of  hfe  or  histre,  without  thee! 

A  boat  at  midnight  sent  alone 

To  drift  upon  the  moonless  sea, 
A  lute,  wliose  leading  choi'd  is  gone, 
A  wounded  bird,  that  hath  but  one 


128  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Imperfect  wing  to  soar  upon, 

Are  like  what  I  am,  without  thee! 

Then  ne'ei-,  my  spirit-love,  divide, 

In  life  or  death,  thyself  from  me; 
But  when  again,  in  sunny  pride, 
Thou  walk'st  through  Eden,  let  me  glide, 
A  prostrate  shadow,  by  thy  side — 
Oh  happier  thus  than  without  thee! 

NAMA  AND   ZARAPH'S   LOVE. 

From  the  Third  Angel's  Story. 

Oh  Love,  Eeligion,  Music — all 

That's  left  of  Eden  upon  earth — 
The  only  blessings,  since  the  fall  ! 
Of  our  weak  souls,  that  still  recall 

A  trace  of  their  high,  glorious  birth- 
How  kindred  are  the  dreams  you  bring; 

How  Love,  though  unto  earth  so  prone, 
Delights  to  take  religion's  wing, 

When  time  or  grief  hath  stain'd  his  own! 
How  near  to  Love's  beguiling  brink, 
t    Too  oft,  entranc'd  Religion  lies! 
"While  Music,  Music  is  the  link 

They  both  still  hold  by  to  the  skies, 
The  language  of  their  native  sphere, 
Which  they  had  else  forgotten  here. 

To  love  as  her  own  Seraph  lov'd, 
With  Faith,  the  same  through  bliss  and  woe- 
Faith,  that,  were  even  its  light  remov'd, 
Could,  like  the  dial,  fix'd  remain. 
And  wait  till  it  shone  out  again ; — 
With  Patience  that,  though  often  bow'd 

By  the  rude  storm,  can  rise  anew ; 
And  Hope  that,  even  from  Evil's  cloud, 

Sees  sunny  Good  half  breaking  through! 
This  deep,  relying  Love,  worth  more 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  129 

In  heaven  than  all  a  Cherub's  lore — 
This  Faith,  more  sure  than  aught  beside, 
Was  the  sole  joy,  ambition,  pride 
Of  her  fond  heart — th'  unreasoning  scope 

Of  all  its  views,  above,  below— 
So  true  she  felt  it  that  to  hope, 

To  trust,  is  happier  than  to  know. 
And  thus  in  humbleness  they  trod, 
A  bash 'd,  liut  pure  before  their  God; 
Nor  e^er  did  earth  behold  a  sight 

So  meekly  beautiful  as  they, 
When,  with  the  altar's  holy  light 

Full  on  their  brows,  they  knelt  to  pray, 
Hand  within  hand,  and  side  by  side, 
Two  links  of  love,  awhile  untied 
From  the  great  chain  above,  but  fast 
Holding  together  to  the  last!— 

In  what  lone  region  of  the  eai'th 
These  pilgrims  now  may  roam  or  dwell, 
God  and  his  angels,  who  look  forth 
To  watch  their  stejis,  alone  can  tell. 
But  should  we,  in  our  wanderings, 
Meet  a  young  pair  whose  beauty  wants 
But  the  adornment  of  bright  wings 
To  look  like  Heaven's  inhabitants ; 
Who  shine  where'er  they  tread,  and  yet 
Are  humble  in  their  earthly  lot, 
As  is  the  wayside  violet 
That  shines  unseen,  and  were  it  not 
For  its  sweet  breath,  would  be  forgot ; 
Whose  hearts  in  every  thought  are  one. 
Whose  voices  utter  the  same  wills. 
Answering  as  echo  doth  some  tone 
Of  fairy  music  'mong  the  hills — 
So  like  itself  we  seek  in  vain 
Which  is  the  echo,  which  the  strain ; 
Whose  piety  is  love,  whose  love, 


130  LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Though  close  as  'twere  their  soul's  embrace, 
Is  not  of  eai'th  but  from  above ; 

Like  two  fair  mirrors,  face  to  face, 
Whose  light,  fiom  one  to  th'  other  thrown, 
Is  heaven's  reflection,  not  their  own — 
Should  we  e'er  meet  with  aught  so  pure, 
So  perfect  here,  we  may  be  sure 

'Tis  Zaraph  and  his  bride  we  see ; 
And  call  young  lovers  round,  to  view 
The  pilgrim  pair,  as  they  pursue 

Their  pathway  towards  eternity. 

From  the  entries  made  in  his  Diary  in  1822  and  1823 
we  extract  the  following,  which  speak  for  themselves : — 

Nov.  2Gth,  1822.— "Shee  told  me  a  hon-mot  of  Eogers' 
the  other  day.  On  somebody  remarking  that  Payne 
Knight  had  got  very  deaf,  '  'Tis  from  want  of  practice,' 
says  Rogers;  Knight  being  a  bad  listener." 

Dec.  17th,  1822. — "Scroope  Davies  called  some  person 
who  had  a  habit  of  i:)uffing  out  his  cheeks  when  he  spoke, 
and  was  not  remarkable  for  veracity,  'The  -^olian 
Lyre.' " 

28th  Dec,  1822.— "In  talking  of  cheap  living,  Jekyll 
(at  Lord  Lansdowne's)  mentioned  a  man  who  told  him, 
his  eating  cost  him  almost  nothing,  for,  'On  Sunday,' 

said  he,  'I  always  dine  with  my  old  friend ,  and 

then  eat  so  much  that  it  lasts  until  Wednesday,  when  I 
buy  some  tripe,  which  I  hate  like  .  .  ,  and  which, 
accordingly,  makes  me  so  sick  that  I  cannot  eat  anj^  more 
till  Sunday  again.' " 

The  entry  on  Dec.  22,  1822,  tells  of  a  curious  mode  of 
communicating  sound: — 

"Jekyll  said  that  Avhen  the  great  waterworks  were 
established  at  Chelsea  there  was  a  pro})osal  for  having 
there,  also,  a   great  organ  from  which   families  might 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  131 

be  supplied  with  sacred  music,  according  as  they  Avished, 
by  turning  the  cock  on  or  off;  but  one  objection  he 
said  was,  that  upon  a  thaw  occurring  after  a  long 
frost,  you  might  have  'Judas  Maccabeus'  bursting  out  at 
Charing  Cross,  and  there  would  be  no  getting  him  under. 
He  said  that  it  was  an  undoubted  fact  that  Lord  (?),  the 
proprietor  of  Lansdowne  House  before  the  old  Lord 
Lansdowne,  had  a  project  of  placing  seven-and-twenty 
fiddlers,  hermetically  sealed,  in  an  apartment  under- 
ground, from  which  music  might  be  communicated  by 
tubes  to  any  apartment  where  it  was  wanted.  Lord  L. 
bore  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  (with  the  exception  of 
its  being  an  organ  instead  of  Jekyll's  hermetically  sealed 
fiddlers),  and  said  that  the  pipes,  which  had  already  been 
laid  for  this  plan,  were  found  during  some  repairs  that 
took  place  at  Lansdowne  House." 

7th  Jan.,  1823. — "At  breakfast  (at  Lord  Lansdowne's) 
Jekyll  told  of  some  one  remarking  on  the  inaccuracy  of 
the  inscription  on  Lord  Kenyon's  tomb.  Mors  Janua  vita; 
upon  which  Lord  Ellenborough  said,  'Don't  you  know 
that  that  was  by  Kenyon's  exjjress  desire,  as  he  left  it  in 
his  will  that  they  should  not  go  to  the  expense  of  a  diph- 
thong?'" 

7th  Jan.,  1823. — "Eogers  told  a  story  of  an  old  gen- 
tleman, Avhen  sleeping  at  the  fire,  lieing  awakened  by  the 
clatter  of  the  fire-irons  all  tumbling  down,  and  saying, 
'What!  going  to  bed  without  one  kiss!'  taking  it  for  the 
children." 

11th  June,  1823. — "Foote  once  said  to  a  canting  sort 
of  lady  that  asked  him,  'Pray,  Mr.  Foote,  do  you  ever  go 
to  church  1'  'Xo,  madam;  not  that  I  see  any  harm  in  it.'" 

18th  June,  1823.— "Luttrel  told  about  a  man  from 
India,  who,  hearing  the  House  of  Commons  mentioned, 
said,  'Oh,  is  that  going  on  stills" 


132  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOOKE. 

21st  June,  1823. — "Constable  asked  me  to  accept 
the  editorship  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  his  partner 
writes  him  on  the  subject,  'Moore  is  out  of  all  sight  the 
best  man  we  could  have;  his  name  would  revive  the 
reputation  of  the  'Review;'  he  would  continue  to  us  our 
connection  with  the  old  contributors,  and  the  work  would 
become  more  literary  and  more  regular;  but  we  must  get 
him  gradually  into  it,  and  the  first  step  is  to  persuade 
him  to  come  to  Edinljurgh.'     The  offer  was  declined." 

Aug.  19th  and  20th,  1823.— "Called  on  Samuel  Lover, 
the  artist,  in  Dublin." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    IRISH    MELODIES — SELECTIONS— MOORE   AS   A    LYRIC    POET. 

At  this  time  (1823)  Moore  made  a  favourable  arrange- 
ment regarding  the  copyright  of  Tiie  Irish.  Melodies.  As 
early  as  1797  his  attention  had  been  called  to  Bunting's 
collection  of  Irish  Melodies;  and,  at  intervals,  Moore  had 
written  words  for  some  of  them  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  sing  with  great  effect.  In  1807,  as  we  have  stated,  he 
began  to  publish  these,  receiving  from  Mr.  Power  £50 
each,  for  the  first  two  numbers.  The  songs  were  im- 
mensely and  deservedly  popular,  and  now,  in  1823,  Mr. 
Power  agreed  to  pay  Moore  £500  a  year,  for  a  series  of 
years,  that  he  might  have  the  exclusive  right  of  publish- 
ing The  Irish  Melodies.  The  whole  ten  numbers  of  these 
Avere  not  completed  till  1834,  and  are  likely  to  prove  the 
most  lasting  of  all  his  works. 

Of  all  that  Moore  has  written,  the  best  of  his  Irish 
Melodies  and  National  Airs,  without  doubt,  are  very  per- 
fect, and  most  likely  to  live  with  the  language  itself,  and 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOORE.  133 

SO  perpetuate  his  fame.  He  wrought  at  these  series  of 
songs  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century;  but,  of  these,  his 
earHer  melodies  are  decidedly  the  best.  In  National  Airs 
(1815),  Sacred  Songs  (1816),  Evenings  in  Greece  (1825), 
and  The  Summer  Fete  (1831),  as  has  been  remarked,  he 
simply  displayed  his  growing  inability  to  recover  "the 
first  line  careless  rapture "  of  his  song.  In  these  four 
volumes  there  are  only  a  few  gems  of  any  great  value, 
such  as  "  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  and  "  Sound  the  Loud 
Timbrel."  This  paucity  and  deterioration,  the  anonymous 
writer,  to  whom  we  refer,  attributes  to  the  social  stress  on 
the  talents  of  Moore  having  prematurely  reduced  his 
powers.  Bright  and  sparkling  at  his  best,  Moore  is  the 
Rossini  of  musicians  and  the  humming-bird  of  poets. 
His  airy  verse,  with  its  drawing-room  sheen  and  polish, 
may  be  aptly  described  in  his  own  Mords,  from  Lalla 
Kookh:~~ 

"  Mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats. 

And  mine  are  the  murmuring  dying  notes 

That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea. 

And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly; 

And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  going, 
Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 

As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 
Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too." 

It  has  often  been  said  that  Moore  displays  more  fancy 
than  imagination.  To  illustrate  what  is  really  meant  by 
those  who  say  so,  let  the  reader  compare  the  two  follow- 
ing passages,  which  describe  the  coming  on  of  evening : — ■ 

Moore  writes — 

"  'Twas  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves, 
At  its  calm  setting,  when  the  West 
Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest. 


134  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  tremUing  down,  as  from  the  eyes 
Of  some  meek  jienitent,  whose  last 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dai'k  ones  past; 
And  whose  sweet  tears  o'er  wi'ong  forgiven, 
Shine  as  they  fall  with  light  from  Heaven." 

And  Milton's  lines,  on  nearly  the  same  theme,  are — 

"  Now  came  still  Evening  on,  and  Twilight  grey, 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad. 
Silence  accompanied ;  for  beast  and  bird 
Those  to  theii'  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests 
Were  slunk  :  All  but  the  wakeful  nightingale : 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung. 
Silence  was  pleased.     Now  glowed  the  firmament 
"With  living  sapphires.     Hes2:)erus  that  led 
The  starry  host  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  Queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw." 

No  one  would  go  to  Moore,  expecting  to  find  the  robust 
vigour,  condensed  wisdom,  and  eiiigrammatic  point  of  a 
Shakspere  or  a  Burns;  but  sentiment,  though  less  deep 
and  more  diffuse,  may  still  be  true,  and  touch  our  hearts. 
How  often  the  cadence  of  a  line  recalls  some  well-nigh 
forgotten  song,  heard  long  ago,  while  the  phrase  of  haunt- 
ing melody,  so  sadly  sweet,  yet  sweetly  sad,  with  which 
it  is  inseparably  and  for  ever  associated,  floats  magically 
through  the  soul,  wafting  us  away  like  the  music  of  a 
dream  to  other  days  and  brighter  scenes,  when  hope  was 
young:— 

"  Sweet  air,  how  every  note  brings  back 

Some  sunny  hope,  some  day-dream  bright 
That,  shining  o'er  life's  early  track, 
Fill'd  even  its  tears  with  liylit ! " 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  135 

Strange  to  say,  Moore,  thougli  Irish,  is,  in  a  national 
sense,  the  least  Irish  of  Irish  bards,  and  does  not  even 
approach  the  natural  pathos  and  humour  of  Samuel 
Lover.  His  songs  are  characterized  more  by  sprightly 
fancy  and  sentiment  than  by  imagination ;  but  he  tho- 
roughly understood  the  requirements  of  vocalization,  and 
his  verse  is  perfectly  modulated  for  singing — an  art  to 
which  very  few  poets,  even  of  a  much  higher  order,  have 
attained. 

Moore  speaks  admiringly  of  the  marvellous  and  match- 
less skill  of  Burns,  in  successfully  adapting  Avords  to 
music,  as  encouraging  him  in  his  own  attempts,  and 
adds  : — "  I  have  always  felt,  in  adapting  w^ords  to  an 
expressive  air,  that  I  was  but  bestowing  upon  it  the  gift 
of  articulation,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  speak  to  others 
all  that  was  conveyed  in  its  wordless  eloquence  to  my- 
self." Indeed,  before  Moore's  day,  Burns  alone  pre-emi- 
nently represented  "the  singing  element  in  literature;" 
and  so  Moore  revived  the  minstrelsy  both  of  Ireland  and 
England. 

Moore  adds,  and  every  word  which  he  utters  on  a 
theme,  so  peculiarly  his  own,  is  intensely  interesting  and 
of  weight, — "  That  Burns,  however  untaught,  Avas  yet, 
in  ear  and  feeling,  a  musician,  is  clear  from  the  skill 
■with  which  he  adapts  his  verse  to  the  structure  and 
character  of  each  diflerent  strain.  Still  more  strikingly 
did  he  prove  his  fitness  for  this  peculiar  task,  by  the  sort 
of  instinct  with  Avhich,  in  more  than  one  instance,  he 
discerned  the  real  and  innate  sentiment  which  an  air  was 
calculated  to  convey,  though  previously  associated  with 
Avords  expressing  a  totally  different  cast  of  feeling.  Thus 
the  air  of  a  ludicrous  old  song,  "Fee  him.  Father,  fee 
him,"  has  been  made  the  medium  of  one  of  Burns'  most 
pathetic  effusions;  while  still  more  marvellously  "Hey 


136  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

tuttie  tattle  "  has  been  elevated  by  him  into  that  heroic 
strain,  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," — a  song  which, 
in  a  great  national  crisis,  would  be  of  more  avail  than  all 
the  elo'quence  of  a  Demosthenes.  ...  I  only  know, 
that  in  a  strong  and  inborn  feeling  for  music  lies  the 
source  of  whatever  talent  I  may  have  shown  for  poetical 
composition;  and  that  it  was  the  effort  to  translate  into 
language  the  emotions  and  passions  which  music  appeared 
to  me  to  express  that  first  led  to  my  writing  any  poetry 
at  all  deserving  of  the  name.  .  .  .  Accustomed  as  I 
have  always  been  to  consider  my  songs  as  a  sort  of 
compound  creations,  in  which  the  music  forms  no  less 
essential  a  part  than  the  verses,  it  is  with  a  feeling  which 
I  can  hardly  expect  my  un-lyrical  readers  to  understand, 
that  I  see  such  a  swarm  of  songs  as  crowd  these  pages 
all  separated  from  the  beautiful  airs  which  have  formed, 
hitherto,  their  chief  ornament  and  strength — their  decus  et 
iutamen.  But,  independently  of  this  uneasy  feeling  or 
fancy,  there  is  yet  another  inconvenient  consequence  of  the 
divorce  of  the  words  from  the  music,  which  will  be  more 
easily,  perhaps,  comprehended,  and  which,  in  justice  to 
myself  as  a  metre-monger,  ought  to  be  noticed.  These 
occasional  breaches  of  the  laws  of  rhythm,  which  the  task 
of  adapting  words  to  airs  demands  of  the  poet,  though 
frequently  one  of  the  happiest  results  of  his  skill,  become 
blemishes  when  the  verse  is  separated  from  the  melody, 
and  require,  to  justify  them,  the  presence  of  the  music 
to  whose  wildness  or  sweetness  the  sacrifice  has  been 
made." 

He  also  wrote,  in  the  preface  to  the  Irish  Melodies:- — 
"  With  respect  to  the  verses  which  I  have  written  for 
these  melodies,  as  theij  are  intended  rather  to  he  sung  than 
read,  I  can  answer  for  their  sound,  with  someAvhat  more 
confidence  than  for  their  sense.     Yet  it  would  be  affecta- 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOOKE.  137 

tion  to  deny  that  I  have  given  much  attention  to  the  task, 
and  that,  it  is  not  through  any  vi^ant  of  zeal  or  industry,  if 
I  unfortunately  disgrace  the  sweet  airs  of  my  country  by 
poetry  altogether  unworthy  of  their  taste,  their  energy, 
and  their  tenderness." 

The  following  anecdote  illustrates  his  painstaking 
efforts  to  put  the  right  word  in  the  right  place,  so  that 
his  work  might  be  as  perfect  as  possible : — Moore  was  on 
a  visit  to  a  literary  friend  in  France,  and,  while  there, 
^vTote  a  short  poem.  One  day,  while  the  guest  was 
engaged  in  his  literary  labour,  the  two  took  a  stroll  into 
an  adjacent  wood,  and  the  host  soon  perceived  that  his 
companion  was  given  up  to  his  own  thoughts;  he  was 
silent  and  abstracted,  noticing  neither  his  friend  and 
entertainer,  nor  the  surrounding  beauties  of  the  landscape. 
By-and-by  he  began  to  gnaw  the  finger-tips  of  his  glove, 
pulling  and  twitching  spasmodically,  and  when  this  had 
gone  on  for  a  long  time  his  friend  ventured  to  ask  him 
what  was  the  trouble.  "I'll  tell  you,"  said  Moore.  "I 
have  left  at  home,  on  my  table,  a  poem  in  which  is  a  word 
I  do  not  like.  The  line  is  perfect,  save  that  one  word, 
and  that  one  word  is  perfect  save  its  inflection.  Thus  it 
is,"  and  he  repeated  the  line  and  asked  his  friend  if  he 
could  help  him.  It  was  a  delicate  point.  The  friend  saw 
the  need — saw  where  and  how  the  present  word  jarred, 
just  the  slightest  possible  bit,  upon  the  exquisite  harmony 
of  the  cadence;  but  he  could  not  supply  the  want.  The 
twain  cudgelled  their  brains,  until  they  reached  the  house, 
on  their  return,  without  avail.  The  rest  of  the  day  was 
spent  as  usual,  as  was  the  evening,  save  that,  ever  and 
anon,  Moore  would  sink  into  silent  fits  in  pursuit  of  the 
absent  word.  And  so  came  on  the  night,  and  the  poet 
went  to  bed  in  a  deep  study.  The  following  morning 
was  bright  and  beautiful,  and  Moore  came  down  from  his 


138  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

chamber  with  a  bounding  step,  with  a  scrap  of  paper  in 
his  hand,  and  a  glorious  hght  in  his  genial  countenance. 
The  word  had  come  to  him !  He  had  awakened  during 
the  night,  and  the  kind  genius  of  inspiration  had  visited 
his  pillow,  and  he  had  got  up  and  torn  a  scrap  from  his 
note-book,  and  at  the  window,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
had  made  the  thought  secure.  "  There,"  he  said,  when 
he  had  incorporated  it  into  the  text,  "  there  it  is — only  a 
simple,  single  word,  a  word  as  common  as  a,  b,  c,  and  yet 
it  cost  me  twelve  hours  of  unflagging  labour  to  find  it, 
and  put  it  where  it  is." 

Moore's  intention,  then,  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind; 
and  it  is  not  fair  to  criticise  the  accent  of  his  songs 
apart  from  the  music  to  which  they  are  written;  for 
the  one  is  dependent  on,  modified  by,  and  quite  insep- 
arable from  the  other.  In  short,  as  Samuel  Lover  points 
out,  even  "Moore  is  liable  to  be  falsely  read,  when 
the  ordinary  accent  is  given  to  the  reading,"  that  is, 
"when  measured  syllabically  rather  than  rhythmically." 
This,  Lover  amply  proves  and  illustrates  by  the  example 
of  "  The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  War  is  Gone,"  given,  marked 
in  longs  and  shorts,  showing  that  the  music  is  more  than 
essential,  and  absolutely  increases  the  power  of  the  Hues 
— the  remarkable  succession  of  long  sounds  in  the  noble 
air  giving  a  grandeur  of  eff^'ect  to  the  poem  which  is  other- 
wise wanting.     Thus,  as  they  Avould  be  read : — 

The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 
In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on. 
And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him ; 

while,  it  is  as  follows,  when  accentuated  by  the  music: — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 


139 


Irish  air— r/te  Moreen. 


IS 


fe^:^^^4=f-r=r^ 


The  min-strel      boy       to     the  war    is     gone,  In     the 


^^=e=^=jg5^s^--j=j=fefe^{ 


ranks  of    death  you'll    find   him ;  His  fa-ther's  sword  he  has 


^q^i^=gs^g=^!=^^5-UB 


gird  -  ed    on  ;  And  his    wild  harp  slung       be    -    hind     him. 

Lover,  who  himself,  in  this  respect,  was  only  second  in 
Ireland  to  Moore,  and  free  from  many  of  Moore's  defects, 
characterized  the  Irish  Melodies  as  "  that  work,  not  only 
the  croAvning  wreath  of  its  author,  but  among  the  glories 
of  the  land  that  gave  him  birth.  To  the  finest  national 
music  in  the  world  he  wrote  the  finest  lyrics;  and  if  Ire- 
land never  produced,  nor  should  ever  produce,  another 
lyric  poet,  sufficient  for  her  glory  is  the  name  of  Thomas 
Moore." 

In  a  letter,  addressed  to  the  present  writer,  Lover 
said: — "Moore  was  keenly  alive  to  the  character  of  a 
melody — hence,  from  those  of  his  own  land  which  are  so 
lovely,  he  selected  judiciously  the  air  suited  to  the  spirit 
of  his  lay.  Then,  as  the  verses  he  wrote  were  meant  to 
be  sung  (not  merely  read),  with  what  consummate  skill 
he  has  accommodated  every  word  to  be  capable  of  the 
'  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out.'  In  this  respect  I  think 
Moore  matchless." 

His  patriotic  songs  are  the  most  real  in  feeling,  and 
therefore  the  best.  With  these,  Moore  permeated  society, 
and,  so,  created  an  interest  in  Irish  matters  and  wrongs. 
10 


140  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Next  to  these  patriotic  songs,  are  those  conveying  moral 
reflections  in  metaphor. 

The  following  selections  are  from  The  Irish  Melodies: — 

SUBLIME   WAS   THE   WAENING. 

Siiblime  was  the  warning  that  Liberty  spoke, 
And  grand  was  the  moment  when  Spaniards  awoke 

Into  life  and  revenge  from  the  conqueror's  chain. 
Oh,  Liberty !  let  not  this  spirit  have  rest, 
Till  it  move,  like  a  breeze,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  west — 
Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrowing  spot, 
Nor,  oh,  be  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  forgot 

While  you  add  to  your  garland  the  Olive  of  Spain ! 

If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeath'd  with  their  rights, 
Give  to  country  its  charm,  and  to  home  its  delights. 

If  deceit  be  a  wound,  and  suspicion  a  stain, 
Then,  ye  men  of  Iberia,  our  cause  is  the  same  ! 
And  oh !  may  his  tomb  want  a  tier  and  a  name. 
Who  would  ask  for  a  nobler,  a  holier  death, 
Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory's  breath, 

For  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain ! 

Ye  Blakes  and  O'Dounels,  whose  fathers  resign'd 
The  green  hills  of  their  youth,  among  strangers  to  find 

That  repose  which,  at  home,  they  had  sigh'd  for  in  vain, 
Join,  join  in  our  hope  that  the  flame,  which  you  light, 
May  be  felt  yet  in  Erin,  as  calm,  and  as  bright, 
And  forgive  even  Albion  while  blushing  she  draws, 
Like  a  truant,  her  sword,  in  the  long-slighted  cause 

Of  the  Sliamrock  of  Eiin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

God  prosper  the  cause ! — oh,  it  cannot  but  thrive, 
While  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive, 

Its  devotion  to  feel,  and  its  rights  to  maintain ;  , 

Then,  how  sainted  by  sorrow,  its  martyrs  will  die ! 
The  finger  of  glory  shall  point  where  they  lie ; 
While,  far  from  the  footstep  of  coward  or  slave, 
The  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall  shelter  their  grave 

Beneath  Shamrocks  of  Erin  and  Olives  of  Spain ! 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  141 

GO  WHEEE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But,  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh !  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee. 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee. 

Sweeter  far  may  be ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest. 
And  when  joys  are  dearest. 

Oh  !  tlien  remember  me ! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest. 

Oh !  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning. 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning. 

Oh  !  thus  remember  me. 
Oft  as  summer  closes. 
When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  ling'ring  roses, 

Once  so  lov'd  by  thee. 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

When,  around  thee  dying. 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying. 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 


142  LIFE   SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

Draw  one  tear  from  tliee ; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  us'd  to  sing  thee, — 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

OH!   BREATHE   NOT   HIS   NAME. 

Oh !  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonour'd  his  relics  are  laid : 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed. 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 

WHEN  HE,  WHO  ADORES   THEE. 

When  he,  who  adores  thee,  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind. 
Oh !  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn. 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee,  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine ; 
In  my  last  humble  prayer,  to  the  Spirit  above. 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 
Oh !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

In  the  following  song,  mark — how  strangely  beautiful 
and  weirdlike  is  the  flow  of  the  uncommon  measure!  It 
is  perfect,  but  requires  the  aid  of  the  music  fully  to  inter- 
pret and  evolve  the  very  peculiar  rhythm : — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  143 

AT   THE   MID   HOUR   OF  NIGHT. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  lov'd,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine  eye, 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  even  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  'twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear! 

When  our  voices  commingling  breath'd,  like  one,  on  the  ear; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  oh  my  love !  'tis  thy  voice  from  the  Kingdom  of 
Souls, 

Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

OH   THE   SHAMEOCK. 

Through  Erin's  Isle, 

To  sport  awhile, 
As  Love  and  Valour  wander'd, 

With  Wit,  the  sprite. 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A  thousand  arrows  squander'd. 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass 
Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming, 

As  softly  green 

As  emeralds  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming. 
Oh  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 

Chosen  leaf. 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 

Says  Valour,  "  See, 

They  sjiring  for  me, 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  !" — 

Says  Love,  "  No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow, 
JMy  fragrant  path  adorning.'* 


144  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

But  Wit  pei'ceives 

The  triple  leaves, 
And  cries,  "  Oh  !  do  not  sever 

A  type,  that  blends 

Three  godlike  friends, 
Love,  Valour,  Wit,  for  ever !" 
Oh  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 

So  firmly  fond 

May  last  the  bond 
Tiiey  wove  that  morn  together, 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather. 

May  Love,  as  twine 

His  flowers  divine, 
Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  'em ; 

May  Valour  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 
Oh  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 

Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock ! 

THE   YOUNG    MAY   MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove, 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love  ! 
Then  awake  ! — the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear, 
'Tis  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear. 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days, 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear ! 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  145 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  Sage,  his  star- watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far. 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  !— till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  'Snatching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light. 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear, 

THE   HARP   THAT   ONCE   THROUGH 

TARA'S   HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tar.a's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. — 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  moi'e. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells ; 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night. 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Tlius  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives, 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

THE   MEETING   OF   THE   WATERS. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet; 
Oh  !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
'Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 


146  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  liill, 
Oh  !  no,— it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  belov'd  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best. 

Where  the  stoims  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  woild  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

THE   OEIGIN   OF   THE   HAEP. 

'Tis  believ'd  that  this  Harp,  which  I  wake  now  for  thee. 
Was  a  Syren  of  old,  who  sung  under  the  sea; 
And  who  often,  at  eve,  thro'  the  bright  waters  rov'd. 
To  meet,  on  the  green  shore,  a  youth  whom  she  lov'd. 

But  she  lov'd  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  tresses  to  steep; 
Till  heav'u  look'd  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm. 
And  chang'd  to  this  soft  Harp  the  sea-maiden's  form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheeks  smil'd  the  same- 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  form'd  the  light  frame; 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o'er  her  white  arm  it  fell, 
Was  chang'd  to  bright  chords  utt'ring  melody's  S2)ell. 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  Harp  so  long  hath  been  known 

To  mingle  love's  language  with  soitow's  sad  tone ; 

Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 

To  sjDeak  love  when  I'm  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away. 

SING,   SWEET   HAEP. 

Sing,  sweet  Harp,  oh  sing  to  me 

Some  song  of  ancient  days, 
Whose  sounds,  in  this  sad  memory, 

Long  buried  dreams  shall  raise; — 
Some  lay  that  tells  of  vanish'd  fame, 

Whose  light  once  round  us  shone ; 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  147 

Of  noble  pride,  now  turu'd  to  shame, 

And  hopes  for  ever  gone. — 
Sing,  sad  Harp,  thus  sing  to  me ; 

Alike  our  doom  is  cast, 
Both  lost  to  all  but  memory, 

We  live  but  in  the  past. 

How  mournfully  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh, 
As  if  it  sought  some  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by ;  — 
Of  Ohief tains,  now  forgot,  who  seeni'd 

The  foremost  then  in  fame ; 
Of  Bards  who,  once  immortal  deem'd, 

Now  sleep  without  a  name. — 
In  vain,  sad  Harp,  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh ; 
In  vain  it  seeks  an  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by. 

Couldst  thou  but  call  tliose  spirits  round, 

Who  once,  in  bower  and  hall. 
Sat  listening  to  thy  magic  sound. 

Now  mute  and  mould'ring  all;^ 
But,  no ;  they  would  but  wake  to  weep 

Their  children's  slavery ; 
Then  leave  them  in  their  dreamless  sleep, 

The  dead,  at  least,  are  free  ! — 
Hush,  hush,  sad  Harp,  that  dreary  tone. 

That  knell  of  Freedom's  day; 
Or,  listening  to  its  death-like  moan. 

Let  me,  too,  die  away. 

LOVE'S   YOUNG   DREAM. 

Oh  !  the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright 

INIy  heart's  chain  wove ; 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night. 

Was  love,  still  love. 


148  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORK. 

New  hope  may  bloom, 
A-nd  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream : 
No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

"When  wild  youth's  past ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown'd  before, 
To  smile  at  last ; 
He'll  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet, 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  v/^hen  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame. 
And  at  every  close,  she  blush'd  to  hear 
The  one  lov'd  name. 

No, — that  hallow'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  trac'd ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory's  waste. 
'Twas  odour  fled 
A-S  soon  as  shed  ; 
'Twas  morning's  winged  dream ; 
'Twas  a  light,  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream : 
Oh !  'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream. 

OH!  AERANMORE,  LOV'D  AERANMOEE. 

Oh  !  Arranmore,  lov'd  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dream  of  thee. 
And  of  those  days  when,  by  thy  shore, 

I  wander'd  young  and  free. 
Full  many  a  path  I've  tried,  since  then, 

Through  pleasure's  flowery  maze, 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  149 

But  ne'er  could  find  the  l)liss  again 
I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blithe  ujjon  thy  breezy  cliffs 

At  sunny  morn  I  stood, 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danc'd  along  thy  flood  ; 
Or,  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing. 
Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing ; — ■ 

That  Eden  where  th'  immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene, — 
Whose  bow'rs  beyond  the  shining  wave, 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen. 
Ah  dream  too  full  of  sadd'ning  truth  ! 

Those  mansions  o'er  the  main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth, — 

A  s  sunny  and  as  vain ! 

SWEET   INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 

How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, — 
To  feel  how  fair  .shall  long  be  mine. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  long  shall  dwell 
In  memory's  dream  that  sunny  smile, 

Which  o'er  thee  on  that  evening  fell, 
When  first  I  saw  thy  faiiy  isle. 

'Twas  light,  indeed,  too  blest  for  one, 

Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 
Tlirough  crowded  haunts  again  to  run. 

And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there ; 

No  more  unto  thy  shores  to  come. 

But,  on  the  world's  rude  ocean  tost, 
Dream  of  thee  sometimes,  as  a  home 

Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost. 


150  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 

To  part  from  thee,  as  I  do  now, 
Wlien  mist  is  o'er  thy  bk)oming  bowers, 

Like  sorrow's  veil  on  beauty's  brow. 

For,  though  unrivall'd  still  thy  grace. 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 

But  thus  in  shadow,  seem'st  a  place 

Where  erring  man  might  hope  to  rest — 

Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 

A  gloom  like  Eden's,  on  the  day 
He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 

Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o'er  his  way. 

"Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  all  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 
For  though  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

'Tis  heav'n's  own  glance  when  it  appears. 

Like  feeling  hearts,  whose  joys  are  few. 
But,  when  indeed  they  come,  divine — 

The  brightest  light  the  sun  e'er  threw 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine ! 

OH,  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD  OF  OUES. 

Oh,  could  we  do  with  -this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  with  thy  garden  bowers, 
Reject  the  weeds  and  keej}  the  flowers. 

What  a  heaven  on  earth  we'd  make  it ! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown. 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down, 

By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  through  air, 
And  in  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light,  still  ready  there, 
Whenever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 
So,  in  this  woikl  I'd  make  for  thee, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   TIIOIVLAS   MOORE.  15l 

Oiu'  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be, 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

While  ev'ry  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  some  shadow  hov'ring  near, 
In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear, 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted : — 
Unless  they're  like  that  graceful  one, 
Which,  when  thou'rt  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 

Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted  ! 

I  SAW  THY  FOEM  IN  YOUTHFUL  PRIME. 

I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay  * 

Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  Time, 

And  waste  its  bloom  away,  Mary! 
Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light. 

Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath ; 
And  life  ne'er  looked  more  truly  bright 

Than  in  thy  smile  of  deo.th,  Mary! 

As  streams  that  run  o'er  golden  mines, 

Yet  humbly,  calmly  glide. 
Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 

Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary ! 
So  veil'd  beneath  the  simplest  guise. 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone. 
And  that,  which  charm'd  all  other  eyes, 

Seem'd  worthless  in  thy  own,  Mary! 

If  souls  could  always  dwell  above. 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  left  that  sphere ; 
Or  could  we  \eep  the  souls  we  love. 

We  ne'er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary! 
Though  many  a  gifted  mind  we  meet, 

Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 
To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet, 

Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary ! 


152  LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

SHE  IS  FAE  FEOM  THE  LAND. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  youug  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her,  sighing : 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  lov'd  awaking ; — 

Ah !  little  they  think  who  delight  in  her  sti'aius. 
How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking. 

He  had  liv'd  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwin'd  him ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

Oh  !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  West, 
From  her  own  lov'd  island  of  sorrow. 

'TIS  THE  LAST  EOSE  OF  SUMMER 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred. 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes. 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping. 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  153 

So  soon  may  /  follow, 

When  friendsliips  decay, 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away. 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone. 

THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on. 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. — 
"  Land  of  song  !"  said  the  warrior-bai'd, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee ! " 

The  Minstrel  fell !— but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under; 
The  harp  he  lov'd  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder ; 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee. 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free. 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery." 

I  SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on ; 

I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining, 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known, 

Each  wave  that  we  danc'd  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alune. 


154  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories,  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night; — 

Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning, 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best  light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 
When  passion  first  wak'd  a  new  life  through  his  frame. 

And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning, 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame. 

COME,  EEST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer. 

Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here ; 

Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 

And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same 

Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame? 

I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 

I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  called  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
And  thy  Angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — ■ 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  stejis  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, — or  jDerish  there  too ! 

AS  SLOW  OUE  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  si  lip  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  Isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loath  we  jDart  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us ; 
So  turn  our  hearts  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

Wlien  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  155 

While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle,  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  biit  love  is  wanting ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us ! 

As  trav'llers  oft  look  back  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country!  in  darkness  I  found  thee. 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long, 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound  thee. 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song ! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 

Have  waken'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echo'd  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 

That  ev'n  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Hai'p  of  my  Country!  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine ! 

Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine; 

If  the  jiulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover. 
Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone; 
11 


156  LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS    MOORE. 

I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  wak'd  was  thy  own. 

If  some  of  Moore's  work  seems  artificial  and  laboured, 
tliese  short  lyrics  of  his,  when  sung,  are  certainly  "un- 
matched in  their  music,  their  delicacy,  and  their  pathos;" 
and,  amongst  European  lyrists,  Moore  has  often  been 
named  along  with  Burns  and  Beranger.  With  reference 
to  him,  as  a  song-writer,  Shelley  humbly  avowed  himself 
"proud  to  acknowledge  his  inferiority;"  and  Byron 
wrote: — "Moore  has  a  peculiarity  of  talent,  or  rather 
talents — poetry,  music,  voice,  all  his  own;  and  an  expres- 
sion in  each  whicli  never  was,  nor  will  be,  possessed  by 
another."  And  of  the  Melodies  he  enthusiastically  de- 
clared tliat  to  him  they  were  "  worth  all  the  epics  that 
ever  were  composed."  Rogers  quaintly  said — that  Moore 
was  born  "with  a  rose  in  his  lijjs  and  a  nightingale 
singing  on  the  top  of  the  bed ! " 

The  following  lyrics  are  taken  from  his  "Ballads, 
Songs,  &c. : " — 

WHEN  MIDST  THE   GAY  I   MEET. 

When  midst  the  gay  I  meet 

That  gentle  smile  of  thine, 
Though  still  on  me  it  turns  most  sweet, 

I  scarce  can  call  it  mine : 
But  when  to  me  alone 

Your  secret  tears  you  show, 
Oh,  then  I  feel  those  tears  my  own, 

And  claim  them  while  they  flow. 
Then  still  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free ; 
Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less, 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 

The  snow  on  Jura's  steep 
Can  smile  in  many  a  beam. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE,  157 

Yet  still  in  chains  of  coldness  sleep, 

How  bright  soe'er  it  seem. 
But,  when  some  deep-felt  ray, 

Whose  touch  is  fire,  appears, 
Oh,  then  the  smile  is  warm'd  away, 

And,  melting,  turns  to  tears. 
Then  still  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free; 
Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less, 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 

WHEN  TWILIGHT  DEWS. 

When  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  sea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star,  whose  beam  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou  too,  on  that  orb  so  dear, 

Dost  often  gaze  at  even. 
And  think,  though  lost  for  ever  here, 

Thou'lt  yet  be  mine  in  heaven. 

There's  not  a  garden  walk  I  tread. 

There's  not  a  flow'r  I  see,  love. 
But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that's  fled, 

Some  joy  that's  gone  with  thee,  love. 
And  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near, 

When,  friends  and  foes  forgiven. 
The  pains,  the  ills  we've  wept  through  here, 

May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven. 

THE   DEEAM  OF  HOME. 

Who  has  not  felt  how  sadly  sweet 

The  dream  of  home,  the  dream  of  home, 

Steals  o'er  the  heart,  too  soon  to  fleet, 
When  far  o'er  sea  or  land  we  roam] 

Sunlight  more  soft  may  o'er  us  fall. 
To  greener  shores  our  bark  may  come; 


158  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

But  far  more  bright,  more  dear  than  all, 
That  dream  of  home,  that  dream  of  home. 

Ask  of  the  sailor  youth  when  far 

His  light  bark  bounds  o'er  ocean's  foam, 
What  charms  him  most,  when  ev'ning's  star 

Smiles  o'er  the  wave?  to  dream  of  home. 
Fond  thoughts  of  absent  friends  and  loves 

At  that  sweet  hour  around  him  come; 
His  heart's  best  joy  where'er  he  roves, 

That  dream  of  home,  that  dream  of  home. 

THEY  TELL  ME  THOU'RT  THE  FAVOUR'D  GUEST. 

They  tell  me  thou'rt  the  favour'd  guest 
Of  every  fair  and  brilliant  throng; 

No  wit  like  thine  to  wake  the  jest, 

No  voice  like  thine  to  breathe  the  song ; 

And  none  could  guess,  so  gay  thou  art, 

That  thou  and  I  are  far  apart. 

Alas!  alas!  how  diff'rent  flows 
With  thee  and  me  the  time  away! 

Not  that  I  wish  thee  sad — heav'n  knows — 
Still  if  thou  can'st,  be  light  and  gay; 

I  only  know,  that  witlioiit  thee 

The  sun  himself  is  dark  to  me. 

Do  I  thus  haste  to  hall  and  bower. 
Among  the  proud  and  gay  to  shine  ? 

Or  deck  my  hair  with  gem  and  flower, 
To  flatter  other  eyes  than  thine  ? 

Ah,  no,  with  me  love's  smiles  are  past, 

Thou  hadst  the  first,  thou  hadst  the  last. 

THE   FANCY   FAIR. 

Come,  maids  and  youths,  for  here  we  sell 
All  wondrous  things  of  earth  and  air; 

Whatever  wild  romancers  tell, 
Or  poets  sing,  or  lovers  swear, 
You'll  find  at  tliis  our  Fancy  Fair. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  159 

Here  eyes  are  made  like  stars  to  shine, 

And  kept,  for  years,  in  such  repair, 
That  ev'n  when  turn'd  of  thirty-nine, 

They'll  hardly  look  the  worse  for  wear, 

If  bought  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We've  lots  of  tears  for  bards  to  show'r, 
And  hearts  that  such  ill-usage  bear, 

That,  though  they're  broken  ev'ry  hour, 
They'll  still  in  rhyme  fresh  breaking  beai-, 
If  purchas'd  at  our  Fancy  Fair. 

Asl  fashions  change  in  ev'ry  thing. 
We've  goods  to  suit  each  season's  air, 

Eternal  friendships  for  the  spring, 

And  endless  loves  for  summer  wear, — 
All  sold  at  this  our  Fancy  Fair. 

We've  reputations  white  as  snow, 
That  long  will  last,  if  us'd  with  care. 

Nay,  safe  through  all  life's  journey  go. 
If  pack'd  and  mark'd  as  "  brittle  ware,"-^ 
Just  purchas'd  at  the  Fancy  Fair. 

BEAUTY  AND   SONG. 

Down  in  yon  summer  vale, 

Where  the  rill  flows, 
Thus  said  a  Nightingale 

To  his  lov'd  Rose: — 
"  Though  rich  the  pleasures 
Of  song's  sweet  measures, 
Vain  were  its  melody, 
Eose,  without  thee." 

Then  from  the  green  recess 

Of  her  night-bow'r. 
Beaming  with  bashfulness, 

Spoke  the  bright  flow'r ; — 
"  Though  morn  should  lend  her 
Its  sunniest  splendour, 


160  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

What  would  the  Rose  be, 
Unsung  by  theel" 

Thus  still  let  Song  attend 

Woman's  bright  way ; 
Thus  still  let  woman  lend 

Light  to  the  lay. 
Like  stars,  through  heaven's  sea. 
Floating  in  harmony, 
Beauty  shall  glide  along, 
Circled  by  Song. 

OH,  DO  NOT  LOOK  SO  BRIGHT  AND  BLEST. 

Oh,  do  not  look  so  bright  and  blest, 

For  still  there  comes  a  fear. 
When  bi'ow  like  thine  looks  happiest, 

That  grief  is  then  most  near. 
There  lurks  a  dread  in  all  delight, 

A  shadow  near  each  ray, 
That  warns  us  then  to  fear  their  flight. 

When  most  we  wish  their  stay. 
Then  look  not  thou  so  bright  and  blest. 

For  ah!  there  comes  a  fear, 
When  brow  like  thine  looks  happiest, 

That  grief  is  then  most  near. 

Why  is  it  thus  that  fairest  things 

The  soonest  fleet  and  die  ? — 
That  when  most  light  is  on  their  wings, 

They're  then  but  spread  to  fly  ! 
And,  sadder  still,  the  i:iain  will  stay — 

The  bliss  no  more  appears ; 
As  rainbows  take  their  light  away. 

And  leave  us  but  the  tears! 
Then  look  not  thou  so  bright  and  blest, 

For  ah!  there  conies  a  fear, 
When  brow  like  thine  looks  happiest, 

That  grief  is  then  most  near. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  161 

He  was  undoubtedly  the  greatest  vocal  lyrist  of  his 
age;  "of  all  song-writers,"  said  Professor  Wilson,  "that 
ever  warbled,  or  chanted,  or  sung,  the  best,  in  our 
estimation,  is  verily  none  other  than  Thomas  Moore." 
Lord  John  Eussell's  estimate  of  Moore  was : — "  Of  Eng- 
lish lyrical  poets  he  is  surely  the  first."  Stopford  A. 
Brooke  writes : — "  He  had  a  slight,  pretty,  rarely  true, 
lyrical  power,  but  all  the  songs  have  this  one  excellence, 
they  are  truly  things  to  be  sung; "  and  Professor  Henry 
Morley,  in  the  same  strain,  adds:  "As  a  lyric  poet  Moore 
was  above  all  things  a  musician — one  of  the  best  writers 
we  have  ever  had  of  words  for  music"  He  has  been  called — 

"  The  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  darlint  of  his  own." 

On  the  best  of  the  Irish  Melodies,  and  of  the  National 
Songs,  Moore's  lasting  fame  will  doubtless  rest.  He  him- 
self has  recorded  this,  as  his  own  belief,  in  these  memorable 
words : — "  My  fame,  whatever  it  is,  has  been  acquired  by 
touching  the  harp  of  my  country,  and  is,  in  fact,  no 
more  than  the  echo  of  the  harp." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MOORE's   bearing    in   society  —  PERSONAL   APPEARANCE  —  TIIK 
BURNING   OF   BYRON's   AUTOBIOGRAPHY — THE   EPICUREAN. 

Of  Moore's  bearing,  when  moving  in  the  highest  circles, 
Lord  Byron,  who  was  a  competent  judge  of  such  matters, 
says: — "In  society  he  is  gentlemanly,  gentle,  and  alto- 
gether more  pleasing  than  any  individual  with  whom  I 
am  acquainted." 

Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  describes  him  as  graceful,  small,  and 


162  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORK. 

slim  in  figure,  "his  upturned  eyes  and  eloquent  features 
giving  force  to  the  music  that  accompanied  the  songs,  or 
rather,  to  the  songs  that  accompanied  the  music.  .  .  . 
I  recall  him  at  this  moment — his  small  form  and  intel- 
lectual face,  rich  in  expression,  and  that  expression  the 
sweetest,  the  most  gentle,  and  the  kindliest.  He  had 
still,  in  age,  the  same  bright  and  clear  eye,  the  same 
gracious  smile,  the  same  suave  and  winning  manner,  I  had 
noticed  as  the  attributes  of  his  comparative  youth;  a  fore- 
head not  remarkably  broad  or  high,  but  singularly  im- 
pressive, firm,  and  full,  with  the  organs  of  music  and 
gaiety  large,  and  those  of  benevolence  and  veneration 
greatly  preponderating." 

Leigh  Hunt,  writing  of  him  in  the  prime  of  life,  says : 
— "His  forehead  is  bony  and  full  of  character,  with 
'  bumps '  of  wit  large  and  radiant  enough  to  transport  a 
phrenologist.  His  eyes  are  as  dark  and  as  fine  as  you 
would  wish  to  see  under  a  set  of  vine  leaves;  his  mouth 
generous  and  good-humoured,  with  dimples." 

Jeffrey  writes  of  "  the  buoyancy  of  his  spirits  and  the 
inward  light  of  his  mind,"  and  declares  him  to  be  "  the 
sweetest-blooded,  warmest-hearted,  happiest,  hopefullest 
creature  that  ever  set  fortune  at  defiance." 

Scott,  in  his  own  diary,  also  gives  the  following  account 
of  the  differences  and  resemblances  between  himself  and 
Moore:— "Nov.  22,  1825.— Moore.  I  saw  Moore  (for 
the  first  time  I  may  say,  this  season).  We  had,  indeed, 
met  in  public  twenty  years  ago.  There  is  a  manly 
frankness,  with  perfect  ease  and  good  breeding  about 
him  which  is  delightful.  Not  the  least  touch  of  the  poet 
or  the  pedant.  .  .  .  His  countenance  is  plain,  but 
the  expression  is  very  animated,  especially  in  speaking 
or  singing,  so  that  it  is  far  more  interesting  than  the 
finest  features  could  have  rendered  it.     I  was  aware  that 


LIFE   SKETCH   OP   THOMAS   MOORE.  163 

Byron  had  often  spoken,  both  in  private  society  and  in 
his  journal,  of  Moore  and  myself  in  the  same  breath,  and 
with  the  same  sort  of  regard;  so  I  was  curious  to  see 
what  there  could  be  in  common  betwixt  us,  Moore  having 
lived  so  much  in  the  gay  world,  I  in  the  country,  and 
with  people  of  business,  and  sometimes  with  politicians; 
Moore  a  scholar,  I  none;  he  a  musician  and  artist,  I  with- 
out knowledge  of  a  note;  he  a  democrat,  I  an  aristocrat; 
with  many  other  points  of  difference;  besides  his  being 
an  Irishman,  I  a  Scotchman,  and  both  tolerably  national. 
Yet  there  is  a  point  of  resemblance,  and  a  strong  one. 
We  are  both  good-humoured  fellows,  who  rather  seek 
to  enjoy  what  is  going  forward  than  to  maintain  our 
dignity  as  Lions." 

A  few  years  later  on,  Willis  thus  sketches  his  appear- 
ance : — "  I  called  on  Moore  with  a  letter  of  introduction, 
and  met  him  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings;  I  knew  him 
instantly  from  the  pictures  I  had  seen  of  him,  but  was 
surprised  at  the  diminutiveness  of  his  person.  He  is 
much  below  the  middle  size,  and  with  his  white  hat  and 
long  chocolate  frock-coat,  was  far  from  prepossessing  in 
his  appearance.  With  this  material  disadvantage,  how- 
ever, his  address  is  gentlemanlike  to  a  very  marked  degree ; 
and  I  should  think  no  one  could  see  Moore  without  con- 
ceiving a  strong  liking  for  him.  As  I  was  to  meet  him 
at  dinner,  I  did  not  detain  him." 

This  dinner  was  at  Lady  Blessington's.  Willis  had 
arrived  but  a  few  minutes  when  "  '  Mr.  Moore,'  cried  the 
footman  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase;  'Mr.  Moore,' 
cried  the  footman  at  the  top;  and  with  his  glass  at  his 
eye,  stumbling  over  an  ottoman,  between  his  near- 
sightedness and  the  darkness  of  the  room,  enter  the  poet. 
Half  a  glance  tells  you  that  he  is  at  home  on  a  carpet. 
Sliding  his  feet  up  to  Lady  Blessington  (of  whom  he  was 


164  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

a  lover  when  she  was  sixteen,^  and  to  whom  some  of  the 
sweetest  of  his  songs  were  written),  he  made  his  compli- 
ments with  a  gaiety  and  an  ease,  combined  with  a  kind 
of  worshipping  deference,  that  was  worthy  of  a  prime 
minister  at  the  court  of  love.  With  the  gentlemen,  all 
of  whom  he  knew,  he  had  the  frank,  merry  manner  of  a 
confident  favourite,  and  he  was  greeted  like  one.  He 
went  from  one  to  the  other,  straining  back  his  head  to 
look  up  at  them  (for  singularly  enough,  every  gentleman 
in  the  room  was  six  feet  and  upward),  and  to  every  one 
he  said  something  which  from  any  one  else  would  have 
seemed  peculiarly  felicitous,  but  which  fell  from  his  lips 
as  if  his  breath  were  not  more  sjiontaneous." 

Although  much  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  society, 
Moore  displayed  an  incredible  amount  of  industry.  He 
might  seem  a  butterfly,  when  dining  out,  but  he  was  a 
bee  at  home,  and  got  through  a  great  amount  of  work. 

His  Memoirs  of  Captain  Rock  appeared  in  1824,  written 
after  a  tour  in  Ireland  with  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne. 

It  is  a  one-sided,  rhapsodical  melange,  severely  com- 
menting upon  the  Government  of  Ireland  by  England,  from 
Pope  Adrian's  time  downward.  The  memoirs  purport  to 
be  written  by  Captain  Rock  himself,  who  is  thus  made 
the  mouth-piece  through  which  Moore,  in  a  fanciful  style, 
pours  the  parti-coloured  rose-water,  rather  than  revolu- 
tionary, viols  of  his  wrath  on  the  oppressors  of  his  country, 
and  on  sundry  enactments,  which  have,  since  that  time, 
been  altogether  removed  from  the  statute-book. 

This  year  Lord  Byron  died,  and  thus  the  existence, 
and  the  intended  pu,blication  of  his  memoirs,  which  he 
had  intrusted  to  Moore  for  that  purpose,  came  to  be 
known. 

'  We  do  not  happen  to  know  Mr.  Willis'  authority  for  this  statement,  nor 
have  we  seen  any  allusion  to  it  elsewhere. — A.  J.  S 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  165 

In  1821,  Moore  had  sold  the  copyright  to  Murray  for 
two  thousand  guineas.  Byron's  relatives,  taking  alarm, 
implored  Moore  to  allow  the  MS.  to  be  destroyed;  to 
which  course  he  consented,  and,  after  arrangements  were 
made  accordingly,  it  was  burned  in  the  presence  of 
witnesses.  That  Moore  acquiesced  in  this  course  from  a 
sense  of  honour,  there  could  be  no  question;  as  he,  on 
receiving  advances  from  Longmans,  actually  repaid  the 
sum  which  he  had  received  from  Murray,  both  principal 
and  interest.  The  MS.  memoirs  had  been  openly  handed 
about,  and  lent  to  ladies;  and  Lord  John  Eussell  stated  that 
the  whole  of  the  objectionable  passages  did  not  amount 
to  more  than  three  or  four  pages;  and  also  that  Moore 
had  Byron's  permission  to  alter  or  leave  out  anything  at 
discretion,  or  could,  easily,  have  neutralized  what  he 
might  deem  wrong  or  unfair,  in  a  foot-note.  This,  the 
mysterious  destruction  of  Byron's  MS.  memoirs,  is  per- 
haps the  most  notable  event  in  the  latter  part  of  Moore's 
life. 

"As  to  the  manuscript  itself,"  says  Lord  John  Russell, 
"having  read  the  greater  part  of  it,  if  not  the  whole,  I 
should  say  that  three  or  four  pages  of  it  were  too  gross 
and  indelicate  for  publication;  that  the  rest,  with  few 
exceptions,  contained  little  traces  of  Lord  Byron's  genius, 
and  no  interesting  details  of  his  life.  His  early  youth 
in  Greece,  and  his  sensibility  to  the  scenes  around  him, 
when  resting  on  a  rock  in  the  sAvimming  excursions  he 
took  from  the  Piraeus,  were  strikingly  described.  But, 
on  the  whole,  the  world  is  no  loser,  by  the  sacrifice  made 
of  the  memoirs  of  this  great  poet." 

The  following  entries  are  taken  from  Moore's  DiARY : — 

Bowood,  24th  Oct.,  1824. —At  breakfast  "Bowles 
mentioned  that  at  some  celebration  at  Reading  school, 
when  the  patrons  or  governors  of  it  (beer  and  brandy 


166  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

merchants)  were  to  be  welcomed  with  a  Latin  address, 
the  boy  appointed  to  the  task  thus  bespoke  them  '  Salvete, 
hospites  celebeerimi,'  and  then  turning  to  the  others, 
^Salvete,  hospites  celehrandi.'  " 

29th  Oct.  1824.— At  Bowood,  Lord  Lansdowne  men- 
tioned "  a  ship  having  been  once  cast  away  at  Peters- 
burgh,  laden  with  the  newest  fashions  from  France,  and 
all  the  fish  that  were  caught  for  several  days  were  dressed 
out  on  the  different  dresses,  veils,  caps,  &c.  &c.  ! ! ! " 

Aug.  16,  1825. — Walking  with  Eogers,  "mentioned 
Sheridan  saying,  when  there  was  some  proposal  to  lay  a 
tax  upon  milestones,  that  it  was  unconstitutional,  as  they 
were  a  race  that  could  not  meet  to  remonstrate." 

17th  Oct.,  1825  (of  Mrs.  Moore).— "  Dear,  generous 
girl,  there  never  was  anything  like  her  for  warmhearted- 
ness and  devotion." 

Moore  visited  Scotland  in  October,  1825,  and  was  de- 
lighted with  Scott  at  Abbotsford,  with  Jeffrey,  with 
Edinburgh,  and  with  the  kind  reception  everywhere  ac- 
corded to  him. 

In  October,  1825,  his  Life  of  Sheridan  appeared  —  a 
work  industriously  compiled  and  pleasantly  written ;  also 
his  Evenings  in  Greece,  from  which  we  take  the  following 
song : — 

"  "Who  comes  so  gracefully 

Gliding  along, 
Wliile  the  blue  rivulet 

SleejDS  to  her  song ; 
Song,  richly  vying 
With  the  faint  sighing 
Which  swans,  in  dying, 

Sweetly  prolong?" 

So  sung  the  shepherd-boy 
By  the  stream's  side, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  167 

"Watching  that  fairy  boat 

Down  the  flood  glide, 
Like  a  bird  winging, 
Through  the  waves  bringing 
That  Syren,  singing 

To  the  hush'd  tide. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  shepherd-boy, 
"  Fairy-boat,  stay, 
Linger,  sweet  minstrelsy, 

Linger,  a  day." 
But  vain  his  pleading, 
Past  him,  unheeding, 
Song  and  boat,  speeding, 
Glided  away. 

So  to  our  youthful  eyes 

Joy  and  hope  shone ; 
So,  while  we  gaz'd  on  them, 

Fast  they  flew  on ; — 
Like  flow'rs,  declining 
Ev'n  in  the  twining, 
One  moment  shining. 

And,  the  next,  gone ! 

His  journal  contains  some  quaint  stories  and  interest- 
ing allusions,  a  few  of  which  we  transcribe : — 

Sept.  21,  1826. — "Quoted  a  propos  of  Selina  Locke's 
eyes,  the  saying  of  a  Spanish  poet  to  a  girl,  '  Lend  me 
your  eyes  for  to-night;  I  want  to  kill  a  man.'  " 

Oct.  25,  1826.— "At  Miss  White's,  while  Head  was 
describing  the  use  of  the  lasso  in  catching  men  as  well  as 
animals,  Luttrell  said  the  first  syllable  of  it  had  caught 
many  a  man." 

26th  Oct.,  1826. — "Some  one  had  said  of  Sharpe's 
very  dark  complexion  that  he  looked  as  if  the  dye  of  his 
old  trade  (hat-making)  had  got  engrained  into  his  face. 
'Yes  (said  Luttrell),  darkness  that  may  he  felL'  " 


168  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS  MOORE. 

13th  June,  1827. — "On  some  one  saying,  'Well,  you 

see 's  predictions  have  come  true.'     'Indeed!'  said 

Plunlcet,  '  I  always  knew  he  was  a  hore,  but  I  didn't  know 
he  was  an  augur.  ^  " 

From  an  entry,  we  find  that  on  June  30,  1827,  Boyle 
Farm  Fete  was  celebrated  —  an  event  which  furnished 
material  for  a  poem  which  appeared  four  years  after. 

2d  July,  1827. — "Lord  Lansdowne  mentioned  a  letter, 
he  had  from  Ireland,  speaking  of  the  'claw  of  an  act,' 
evidently  thinking  that  clause  was  plural." 

10th  July,  1827. — "Byron's  mother,  a  vulgar,  violent 
woman;  it  was  she  who  instilled  into  him  a  dislike  for 
Lord  Carlisle,  with  whom  she  was  continually  at  war  on 
the  subject  of  Byron's  bringing  up.  Made  a  racket 
whenever  she  came  to  Glennies;  and  the  other  boys  used 
to  say,  'Byron,  your  mother's  a  fool.'  'I  know  it,'  was 
his  answer." 

11th  Aug.,  1827. — Barnes  of  the  Times  agreed  to  give 
£400  a  year  for  occasional  contributions,  squibs,  &c. 

19th  Aug.,  1827. — "Took  Bessy  to  hear  mass  at  War- 
dour;  the  first  time  she  ever  saw  Catholic  service  per- 
formed. The  music  as  usual  (when  it  is  so  good)  raised 
me  to  the  skies,  but  the  gaudy  ceremonies  and  the 
gesticulations  of  the  mass  shocked  my  simple-minded 
Bessy,  and  even  the  music,  much  as  she  feels  it,  could 
not  reconcile  her  to  the  gold  garments  of  the  priest." 
(Mrs.  Moore  was  a  Protestant,  and  their  children  were  all 
baptized  by  Church  of  England  clergymen.) 

27th  Oct.,  1827. — "In  talking  of  dogs,  a  case  men- 
tioned, where  a  man  in  going  to  bathe  left  his  clothes  in 
the  care  of  his  dog,  but  on  his  returning  out  of  the  water 
the  dog,  not  knowing  him,  would  not  give  them  up 
acrain." 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  169 

*'  Dunning  once  being  asked  how  he  contrived  to  get 
tlirough  his  business,  answered,  '  I  do  a  little;  a  little 
does  itself;  and  the  rest  is  undone." 

In  1827  The  Epicurean  was  published,  illustrated  with 
vignettes  on  steel  after  Turner.  It  is  a  romance  founded 
on  Egyptian  mythology,  and  is  the  most  highly  finished, 
artistic,  and  imaginative  of  his  prose  writings. 

He  at  first  intended  to  write  it  in  verse,  and  indeed 
began  it  in  that  form;  but  left  it  as  an  unfinished  frag- 
ment, called  "  Alciphron,"  which  appeared  appended  to 
the  prose  tale. 

Alciphron  was  an  Epicurean  philosopher  converted  to 
Christianity,  A.D.  257,  by  a  young  Egyptian  maiden  with 
whom  he  fell  in  love,  but  who  sufTered  martyrdom  in  that 
year.  On  her  death,  he  betook  himself  to  the  desert. 
During  the  persecution  under  Dioclesian,  his  suflerings 
for  the  faith  were  most  exemplary,  and  being  at  length, 
at  an  advanced  age,  condemned  to  hard  labour  for  refus- 
ing to  comply  with  an  imperial  edict,  he  died  at  the  brass 
mines  of  Palestine,  A.D.  297.  There  was  found,  after  his 
death,  a  small  metal  mirror,  like  those  used  in  the  cere- 
monies of  Isis,  suspended  around  his  neclc 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  MOON. 

(from  "  THE  EPICUREAN.") 

The  rising  of  the  moon,  slow  and  majestic,  as  if  conscious  of 
the  honours  that  awaited  her  upon  earth,  was  welcomed  with 
a  loud  acclaim  from  every  eminence,  where  multitudes  stood 
watching  for  her  first  light.  And  seldom  had  that  light  risen 
upon  a  more  beautiful  scene.  The  city  of  Memphis — still 
grand,  though  no  longer  the  unrivalled  Memphis,  that  had  borne 
away  from  Thebes  the  crown  of  supremacy,  and  •worn  it  un- 
disputed through  ages — now  softened  by  tlie  mild  moonlight 


170  LIFE   SKETCH   OF  THOMAS   MOORE. 

that  harmonized  with  her  decline,  shone  forth  among  her  lakes, 
her  pyramids,  and  her  shrines,  like  one  of  those  dreams  of 
human  glory  that  must  ere  long  pass  away.  Even  already  ruin 
was  visible  around  her.  The  sands  of  the  Libyan  desert  were 
gaining  ujDon  her  like  a  sea ;  and  there,  among  solitary  columns 
and  sphinxes,  already  half  sunk  from  sight,  Time  seemed  to 
stand  waiting,  till  all  tliat  now  flourished  around  him  should 
fall  beneath  his  desolating  hand  like  the  rest. 

On  the  waters  all  was  gaiety  and  life.  As  far  as  eye  could 
reach,  the  lights  of  innumerable  boats  were  seen  studding,  like 
rubies,  the  suiface  of  the  stream.  Vessels  of  every  kind^from 
the  light  coracle,  built  for  shooting  down  the  cataracts,  to  the 
large  yacht  that  glides  slowly  to  the  sound  of  flutes — all  were 
afloat  for  this  sacred  festival,  filled  with  crowds  of  the  young 
and  the  gay,  not  only  from  Memj^his  and  Babylon,  but  from 
cities  still  farther  removed  from  the  festal  scene. 

As  I  approached  the  island  I  could  see,  glittering  through 
the  trees  on  the  bank,  the  lamps  of  the  pilgrims  hastening  to 
the  ceremony.  Landing  in  the  direction  which  those  lights 
pointed  out,  I  soon  joined  the  crowd ;  and,  passing  through  a 
long  alley  of  sphinxes,  whose  spangling  marble  gleamed  out 
from  the  dark  sycamores  around  them,  reached  in  a  short  time 
the  grand  vestibule  of  the  temple,  where  I  found  tlie  ceremo- 
nies of  the  evening  already  commenced. 

In  this  vast  hall,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  double  range 
of  columns,  and  lay  open  oveihead  to  the  stars  of  heaven,  I 
saw  a  group  of  young  maidens,  moving  in  a  sort  of  measured 
step,  between  walk  and  dance,  round  a  small  shrine,  upon  which 
stood  one  of  those  sacred  birds,  that,  on  account  of  the  varie- 
gated colour  of  their  wings,  are  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  the 
moon.  The  vestibule  was  dimly  lighted — there  being  but  one 
lamp  of  uajihtha  hung  on  each  of  the  great  pillars  that  en- 
circled it.  But,  having  taken  my  station  beside  one  of  those 
pillars,  I  had  a  clear  view  of  the  young  dancers,  as  in  succession 
they  passed  me. 

The  drapery  of  all  v/as  white  as  snow ;  and  each  wore  loosely, 
beneath  the  bosom,  a  dark  blue  zone,  or  bandelet,  studded, 
like  the  skies  at  midnight,  with  small  silver  stars.     Through 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  I7l 

their  dark  locks  was  wreathed  the  white  lily  of  the  Nile — that 
sacred  flower  being  accounted  no  less  welcome  to  the  moon  than 
the  golden  blossoms  of  the  bean-flower  are  known  to  be  to  the 
sun.  As  they  passed  under  the  lamp,  a  gleam  of  light  flashed 
from  their  bosoms,  which,  I  could  perceive,  was  the  reflection 
of  a  small  mirror,  that,  in  the  manner  of  the  women  of  the 
East,  each  of  the  dancers  wore  beneath  her  left  shoiUder. 

There  was  no  music  to  regulate  their  steps ;  but,  as  tliey 
gracefully  went  round  the  bird  on  the  shrine,  some  to  the  beat 
of  the  Castanet,  some  to  the  shrill  ring  of  a  sistrum — which 
they  held  uplifted  in  the  attitude  of  their  own  divine  Isis — 
continued  harmoniously  to  time  the  cadence  of  their  feet ;  while 
others,  at  every  step,  shook  a  small  chain  of  silver,  whose  sound, 
mingling  with  those  of  the  castanets  and  sistrums,  j^roduced 
a  wild,  but  not  unj^leasing  harmony. 

They  seemed  all  lovely ;  but  there  was  one — whose  face  the 
light  had  not  yet  reached,  so  downcast  she  held  it — who  at- 
tracted, and,  at  length,  riveted  all  my  looks  and  thoughts.  I 
know  not  why,  but  there  was  a  something  in  those  half-seen 
features — a  charm  in  the  very  shadow  that  hung  over  their 
imagined  beauty — which  took  my  fancy  more  than  all  the  out- 
shining loveliness  of  her  companions.  So  enchained  was  I  by 
this  coy  mystery,  that  her  alone,  of  all  the  group,  could  I  either 
see  or  think  of — her  alone  I  watched,  as,  with  the  same  down- 
cast brow,  she  glided  gently  and  aerially  round  the  altar,  as 
if  her  presence,  like  that  of  a  sjiirit,  was  something  to  be  felt, 
not  seen. 

Suddenly,  while  I  gazed,  the  loud  crash  of  a  thousand  cym- 
bals was  heard ; — the  massy  gates  of  the  temple  flew  open,  as 
if  by  magic,  and  a  flood  of  radiance  from  the  illuminated  aisle 
filled  the  whole  vestibule ;  while,  at  the  same  instant,  as  if  the 
light  and  the  sound  were  borne  together,  a  peal  of  rich  har- 
mony came  mingling  with  the  radiance. 

It  was  then — by  that  light,  which  shone  full  upon  the  young 
maiden's  features,  as,  starting  at  the  sudden  blaze,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  portal,  and  as  quickly  let  fall  their  lids  again 
— it  was  then  I  beheld,  what  even  my  own  ardent  imagina- 
tion, in  its  most  vivid  dreams  of  beauty,  had  never  pictured. 
12 


172  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Not  Psyche  herself,  when  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  heaven, 
while  its  first  glories  fell  on  her  dazzled  lids,  could  have  looked 
more  purely  beautiful,  or  blushed  with  a  more  innocent  shame. 
Often  as  I  had  felt  the  power  of  looks,  none  had  ever  entered 
into  my  soul  so  deeply.  It  was  a  new  feeling— a  new  sense — 
coming  as  suddenly  upon  me  as  that  radiance  into  the  vesti- 
bule, and,  at  once,  filling  my  whole  being ;— and  had  that  bright 
vision  but  lingered  another  moment  before  my  eyes  I  should  in 
my  transport  have  wholly  forgotten  who  I  was  and  where,  and 
thrown  myself,  in  prostrate  adoration,  at  her  feet. 

But  scarcely  had  that  gush  of  harmony  been  heard,  when  the 
sacred  bird,  which  had,  till  now,  been  standing  motionless  as 
an  iniage,spread  wide  his  wings,  and  flew  into  the  temple;  while 
his  graceful  young  worshippers,  with  a  fleetness  like  his  own, 
followed — and  she,  who  had  left  a  dream  in  my  heart  never 
to  be  forgotten,  vanished  along  with  the  rest.  As  she  went 
rapidly  past  the  pillar  against  which  I  leaned,  the  ivy  that  en- 
circled it  caught  in  her  drapeiy,  and  disengaged  some  orna- 
ment, which  fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  small  mirror  which 
I  had  seen  shining  on  her  bosom.  Hastily  and  tremulously  I 
picked  it  up,  and  hurried  to  restore  it ;  but  she  was  already 
lost  to  my  eyes  in  the  crowd. 

In  vain  did  I  try  to  follow; — the  aisles  were  already  filled 
and  numbers  of  eager  pilgrims  pressed  towards  the  portal. 
But  the  servants  of  the  temple  denied  all  further  entrance,  and 
still,  as  I  presented  myself,  their  white  wands  barred  the  way 
Perjilexed  and  irritated  amid  that  crowd  of  faces,  regarding 
all  as  enemies  that  impeded  my  progress,  I  stood  on  tiptoe, 
gazing  into  the  busy  aisles,  and  with  a  heart  beating  as  I 
caught,  from  time  to  time,  a  glimpse  of  some  spangled  zone, 
or  lotus  wreath,  which  led  me  to  fancy  that  I  had  discovered 
the  fair  object  of  my  search.  But  it  was  all  in  vain ; — in  every 
direction  files  of  sacred  nymphs  were  moving,  but  nowhere 
could  I  discover  her  whom  alone  I  sought. 

In  this  state  of  breathless  agitation  did  I  stand  for  some 
time — bewildered  with  the  confusion  of  faces  and  lights,  as 
well  as  with  the  clouds  of  incense  that  rolled  around  me — 
till,  fevered  and  impatient,  I  could  endure  it  no  longer.    Forcing 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  173 

my  way  out  of  the  vestibule  into  the  cool  air,  I  hurried  back 
through  the  alley  of  sphinxes  to  the  shore,  and  flung  myself 
into  my  boat. 

EXTRACT   FROM 

ALCIPHEON. 

'Mong  stars  that  came  out  one  by  one, 
The  young  moon — like  the  Roman  mother 

Among  her  living  jewels — slione. 
"Oh  that  from  yonder  orbs,"  I  thought, 

"  Pure  and  eternal  as  they  are. 
There  could  to  earth  some  power  be  brought, 
Some  charm,  with  their  own  essence  fraught, 

To  make  man  deathless  as  a  star; 
And  open  to  his  vast  desires 

A  course,  as  boundless  and  sublime 
As  that  which  waits  those  comet-fires. 

That  burn  and  roam  throughout  all  time!" 

While  thoughts  like  these  absorb'd  my  mind, 

That  weariness  which  earthly  bliss. 
However  sweet,  still  leaves  behind. 

As  if  to  show  how  earthly  'tis. 
Came  lulling  o'er  me,  and  I  laid 

My  limbs  at  that  fair  statue's  base — 
That  miracle,  which  Art  hath  made 

Of  all  the  choice  of  Natui'e's  grace — 
To  which  so  oft  I've  knelt  and  sworn. 

That,  could  a  living  maid  like  her 
Unto  this  wondering  world  be  born, 

I  would,  myself,  turn  worshipper. 

Sleej)  came  then  o'er  me — and  I  seem'd 

To  be  transported  far  away 
To  a  bleak  desert  plain,  where  gleam'd 

One  single,  melancholy  ray, 
Throughout  that  darkness  dimly  shed 

From  a  small  tapei'  in  the  hand 


174  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Of  one,  who,  pale  as  are  the  dead. 
Before  me  took  his  spectral  stand, 

And  said,  while,  awfully,  a  smile 

Came  o'er  the  wanness  of  his  cheek — 

"Go,  and  beside  the  sacred  Nile 

You'll  find  th'  Eternal  life  you  seek." 

Soon  as  he  spoke  these  words,  the  hue 
Of  death  o'er  all  his  features  grew, 
Like  the  pale  morning,  when  o'er  night 
She  gains  the  victoiy,  full  of  light; 
While  the  small  torch  he  held  became 
A  glory  in  his  hand,  whose  flame 
Brighten'd  the  desert  suddenly. 

Even  to  the  far  horizon's  line — 
Along  whose  level  I  could  see 

Gardens  and  groves,  that  seem'd  to  shine, 
As  if  then  o'er  them  freshly  play'd 
A  vernal  rainbow's  rich  cascade; 
And  music  floated  everywhere 
Circling,  as  'twere  itself  the  air, 
And  spirits,  on  whose  wings  the  hue 
Of  heaven  still  linger'd,  round  me  flew, 
Till  from  all  sides  such  splendours  broke, 
That,  with  the  excess  of  light,  I  woke ! 

The  rising  of  the  Moon,  calm,  slow, 

And  beautiful,  as  if  she  came 
Fresh  from  the  Elysian  bowers  below, 

Was,  with  a  loud  and  sweet  acclaim, 
Welcom'd  from  every  breezy  height. 
Where  crowds  stood  waiting  for  her  light. 
And  well  might  they  who  view'd  the  scene 

Then  lit  u]^  all  around  them,  say, 
That  never  yet  had  Nature  been 

Caught  sleeping  in  a  lovelier  ray, 
Or  rivall'd  her  own  noontide  face. 
With  purer  show  of  moonlight  grace. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  175 

Memphis — still  grand,  though  not  the  same 

Unrivall'd  Memjjliis,  that  could  seize 
From  ancient  Thebes  the  crown  of  Fame, 

And  wear  it  bright  through  centuries — 
Now,  in  the  moonsliiue,  that  came  down 
Like  a  last  smile  upon  that  crown, — 
Memphis,  still  grand,  among  her  lakes, 

Her  pyramids  and  shrines  of  fire, 
Rose,  like  a  vision,  that  half  breaks 
On  one  who,  dreaming  still,  awakes. 

To  music  from  some  midnight  choir: 
While  to  the  west — where  gradual  sinks 

In  the  red  sands,  from  Libya  roll'd. 
Some  mighty  column,  or  fair  sphynx. 

That  stood  in  kingly  courts,  of  old — 
It  seem'd  as,  'mid  the  pomps  that  shone 
Thus  gaily  round  him.  Time  look'd  on, 
Waiting  till  all,  now  bright  and  blest. 
Should  sink  beneath  him  like  the  rest. 

No  sooner  had  the  setting  sun 
Proclaim'd  the  festal  rite  begun, 
And,  'mid  their  idol's  fullest  beams. 

The  Egyptian  world  was  all  afloat, 
Than  I,  who  live  upon  these  streams. 

Like  a  young  Nile-bird,  turn'd  my  boat 
To  the  fair  island,  on  whose  shores. 
Through  leafy  palms  and  sycamores, 
Already  shone  the  moving  lights 
Of  pilgrims  hastening  to  the  rites. 
While,  far  around,  like  ruby  sparks 
Upon  the  water,  lighted  barks. 
Of  every  form  and  kind — from  those 

That  down  Syene's  cataract  shoots. 
To  the  grand,  gilded  barge,  that  rows 

To  tambour's  beat  and  breath  of  flutes, 
And  wears  at  night,  in  words  of  flame, 
On  the  rich  prow,  its  master's  name ; — • 


176  LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

All  were  alive,  and  made  this  sea 

Of  cities  busy  as  a  bill 
Of  summer  ants,  caught  suddenly 

In  the  overflowing  of  a  rill. 

Landed  upon  the  isle,  I  soon 

Through  marble  alleys  and  small  groves    , 

Of  that  mysterious  palm  she  loves, 
Eeach'd  the  fair  Temple  of  the  Moon ; 
And  there— as  slowly  thiough  the  last 
Dim-lighted  vestibule  I  pass'd — 
Between  the  jjorphyry  pillars,  twin'd 

With  palm  and  ivy,  I  could  see 
A  band  of  youthful  maidens  wind, 

In  measur'd  walk,  half  dancingly, 
Hound  a  small  shrine,  on  which  was  plac'd 

That  bird,  whose  plumes  of  black  and  white 
Were  in  their  hue,  by  Nature  trac'd, 

A  type  of  the  moon's  shadow'd  light. 

In  drapery,  like  woven  snow, 

These  nymphs  were  clad ;  and  each,  below 

The  rounded  bosom,  loosely  wore 

A  dark  blue  zone,  or  bandelet, 
With  little  silver  stars  all  o'er. 

As  are  the  skies  at  midnight,  set, 
While  in  their  tresses,  braided  through. 

Sparkled  that  flower  of  Egypt's  lakes, 
The  silvery  lotus,  in  whose  hue 

As  much  delight  the  young  Moon  takes, 
As  doth  the  Day-God  to  behold 
The  lofty  bean-flower's  buds  of  gold. 
And,  as  they  gracefully  went  round 

The  worshipp'd  bird,  some  to  the  beat 
Of  castanets,  some  to  the  sound 

Of  the  shrill  sistrum  tim'd  their  feet; 
While  others,  at  each  step  they  took, 
A  tinkling  chain  of  silver  shook. 


LIKE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  177 

They  seem'd  all  fair — but  there  was  one 
On  whom  the  light  had  not  yet  shone, 
Or  shone  but  partly — so  downcast 
She  held  her  brow  as  slow  she  past. 
And  yet  to  nie,  thei-e  seem'd  to  dwell 

A  charm  about  that  unseen  face — 
A  something  in  the  shade  that  fell 

Over  that  brow's  imagin'd  grace, 
Which  won  me  more  than  all  the  best 
Outshining  beauties  of  the  rest. 
And  her  alone  my  eyes  could  see, 
Enchain'd  by  this  sweet  mystery; 
And  her  alone  I  watch'd,  as  round 
She  glided  o'er  that  marble  ground, 
Stirring  not  more  th'  unconscious  air 
Than  if  a  Spirit  v.ere  moving  there. 
Till  suddenly,  wide  open  flew 
The  Temple's  folding  gates,  and  threw 
A  splendour  from  within,  a  flood 
Of  glory,  where  these  maidens  stood. 
While,  with  that  light — as  if  the  same 
Rich  source  gave  birth  to  both — there  came 
A  swell  of  harmony,  as  grand 
As  e'er  was  born  of  voice  and  hand. 
Filling  the  gorgeous  aisles  ai'ound 
With  luxury  of  light  and  sound. 

Then  was  it,  by  the  flash  that  blaz'd 

Full  o'er  her  features — oh  'twas  then, 
As  startingly  her  eyes  she  rais'd, 

But  quick  let  fall  their  lids  again, 
I  saw — not  Psyche's  self,  when  first 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  skies 
She  jjaus'd,  while  heaven's  glory  burst 

Newly  upon  her  downcast  eyes, 
Could  look  more  beautiful,  or  blush 

With  holier  shame,  than  did  this  maid, 
Wliom  now  I  saw,  in  all  that  gush 


178  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Of  Splendour  from  the  aisles,  display'd. 
Never — thovigh  well  thou  kuow'st  how  much 

I've  felt  the  sway  of  Beauty's  star — • 
Never  did  her  bright  influence  touch 

My  soul  into  its  depths  so  far; 
And  had  that  vision  linger'd  there 

One  minute  more,  I  should  have  flown, 
Forgetful  who  I  was  and  where, 

And,  at  her  feet  in  worship  thrown, 

ProflFer'd  my  soul  through  life  her  own. 

But,  scarcely  had  that  burst  of  light 
And  music  broke  on  ear  and  sight, 
Than  up  the  aisle  the  bird  took  wing, 

As  if  on  heavenly  mission  sent. 
While  after  him,  with  graceful  spring. 

Like  some  unearthly  creatures,  meant 

To  live  in  that  mix'd  element 

Of  light  and  song,  the  young  maids  went; 
And  she,  who  in  my  heart  had  thi^own 
A  spark  to  burn  for  life,  was  flown. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  follow; — bands 

Of  reverend  chanters  fiU'd  the  aisle: 
Where'er  I  sought  to  pass,  their  wands 

Motion'd  me  back,  while  many  a  file 
Of  sacred  nymphs — but  ah,  not  they 
Whom  my  eyes  look'd  for — throng'd  the  way. 
Perplex'd,  impatient,  'mid  this  crowd 
Of  faces,  lights — the  o'erwhelming  cloud 
Of  incense  round  me,  and  my  blood 
Full  of  its  noM'-born  fire — I  stood. 
Nor  mov'd,  nor  breath'd,  but  when  I  caught 

A  glimpse  of  some  blue,  spangled  zone, 
Or  wreath  of  lotus,  which  I  thought. 

Like  those  she  wore  at  distance  shone. 

But  no,  'twas  vain — hour  after  hour. 
Till  my  heart's  throbbing  turn'd  to  pain, 


IIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  179 

And  my  strain' J  e}\  siglit  lost  its  power, 

I  sought  her  thus,  but  all  in  vain. 
At  length,  hot — wilder'd— in  despair, 
I  rush'd  into  the  cool  night-air, 
And,  hurrying  (though  with  many  a  look 
Back  to  the  busy  Temple),  took 
My  way  along  the  moonlight  shore. 
And  sprung  into  my  boat  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

POLITICAL   ODES — LIFE    OF   BYRON — SUMMER    FETE — PENSION — 
LATTER  WORKS. 

In  1828  Moore  published  "Odes  on  Cash,  Corn,  and 
Catholics,"  full  of  quaint  hints  and  pointed  allusions  to 
the  political  topics  of  the  day,  which  made  his  bright 
sallies  of  wit  immensely  popular  at  the  time.  Here  is  a 
verse  Avhich  our  readers  might  almost  fancy  was  written 
by  Hood : — 

"  Now,  Dantzic  wheat  before  you  floats — 
Now,  Jesuits  from  California — 
Now  Ceres,  link'd  with  Titus  Oats, 

Comes  dancing  through  the  Porta  Cornea,^ 

In  The  Periwinkles  and  the  Locusts,  a  Salmagundian 
Hymn,  founded  on  a  sentence  from  Rabelais'  story  of 
Panurge,  he  thus  hits  at  the  financing  of  the  govern- 
ment : — 

"  The  Salmagundian  ones  were  rich. 
Or  thought  they  were — no  matter  which — 
For,  every  year,  the  Revenue 
From  their  Periwinkles  larger  grew ! 

1  The  Honi  Gate,  through  which  the  ancients  supposed  all  true  dreams  to 
pass. 


180  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORK. 

And  their  rulers,  skill'd  in  all  the  trick 
And  legerdemain  of  arithmetic, 
Knew  how  to  place  1,  2,  3,  4, 

5,  6,  7,  8,  and  9  and  10, 
Such  various  ways — behind,  before, 
That  they  made  a  unit  seem  a  score 

And  proved  themselves  most  wealthy  men ! 

"  So,  on  they  went,  a  prosperous  crew, 
The  people  wise,  the  rulers  clever — 
And  God  help  those  like  me  and  you     ■ 
Who  dared  to  doubt  (as  some  now  do) 
That  the  Periwinkle  Revenue 

Would  thus  go  flourishing  on  for  ever." 

We  cull  the  following  amusing  entries  from  his 
Diary  : — 

Breakfasting  at  Eogers',  May  22,  1828.— "Luttrell's 
idea  of  the  English  climate, — '  On  a  fine  day,  like  looking 
up  a  chimney;  on  a  rainy  day,  like  looking  down  it.'" 

27th  May,  1828. — "Breakfasted  at  Eogers'.  Anecdote 
of  the  Disputatious  Man : — '  Why,  it  is  as  plain  as  that 
two  and  two  make  four.'  '  But  I  deny  that  too ;  for  2 
and  2  make  twenty-two.'" 

June  6,  1828. — "Talking  of  figurative  oratory,  men- 
tioned the  barrister  before  Lord  EUenborough.  'My 
lord,  I  appear  before  you  in  the  character  of  an  advo- 
cate from  the  city  of  London;  the  city  of  London  herself 
appears  before  you  as  a  s-uppliant  for  justice.  My  lord,  it 
is  written  in  the  book  of  nature — '  '  What  book  1 '  says 
Lord  E.  'The  book  of  nature.'  'Name  the  page,'  say^ 
Lord  E.,  holding  his  pen  uplifted,  as  if  to  note  the  page 
down." 

6th  July,  1828. — "Apropos  of  loss  of  friends,  somebody 
was  saying  the  other  day,  before  Morgan,  the  great  calcu- 
lator of  lives,  that  they  had  lost  so  many  friends  (men- 


LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  181 

tioning  the  number)  in  a  certain  space  of  time,  upon 
which  Morgan,  coolly  taking  down  a  book  from  his  office 
shelf,  and  looking  into  it,  said,  '  So  you  ought,  sir,  and 
three  more.' " 

Aug.  11,  1828. — "Anecdote  of  the  Rival  Shoemakers. 
— One  of  them  putting  up  over  his  shop,  ^  Mens  consckt 
recti,'  and  the  other  instantly  mounting,  'Men's  and 
Women's  conscia  recti.' " 

July  5th,  1829. — "  Eogers  mentioned  a  clever  thing 
said  by  Lord  Dudley,  on  some  Vienna  lady  remarking 
impudently  to  him,  'What  wretchedly  bad  French  you 
all  speak  in  London !'  '  It  is  true,  Madame,'  he  answered, 
'  we  have  not  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  having  the  French 
twice  in  our  capital.' " 

21st  Sept.,  1829. — "Crocker  told  the  following  anec- 
dote:— Fenelon,  who  had  often  teazed  Richelieu  (and 
ineffectually,  it  would  seem)  for  subscriptions  to  charit- 
able undertakings,  was  one  day  telling  him  that  he  had 
just  seen  his  picture.  'And  did  you  ask  it  for  a  subscrip- 
tion ] '  said  Richelieu  sneeringly.  '  No,  I  saw  there  was 
no  chance,'  replied  the  other;  'it  was  so  like  you.'" 

5th  Oct.,  1829. — Dining  at  Murray's,  "Charles  Lamb, 
sitting  next  some  chattering  women  at  dinner;  observing 
he  didn't  attend  to  her,  '  You  don't  seem,'  said  the  lady, 
'  to  be  at  all  the  better  for  what  I  have  been  saying  to 
you.'  '  No,  ma'am,'  he  answered,  '  but  this  gentleman  at 
the  other  side  of  me  must,  for  it  all  came  in  at  the  one 
ear  and  went  out  at  the  other.' 

"Bannister's  melancholy  at  finding  himself  sixty-five, 
exactly  the  number  of  his  own  house. — Looking  up  at 
the  plate  on  the  door,  and  soliloquizing,  'Ay,  you  needn't 
tell  me,  I  know  it;  you  told  me  the  same  thing  yes- 
terday.'" 

16th  Dec,  1829. — Bowood.    "  A  Russian  mentioned,  at 


182  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

dinner,  an  anecdote  of  a  Swiss  and  a  Brabanter  talking 
together,  and  the  latter  reproaching  the  Swiss  with  fight- 
ing for  money,  while  he  (the  Brabanter)  fought  for 
lionour.  'The  fact  is,'  answered  the  Swiss  drily,  'Ave 
each  of  us  fight  for  what  each  most  wants  ' " 

20th  Dec,  1829.— Dining  at  Murray's,  the  host  told  of 
"  a  man  recounting  his  feats  in  shooting,  and  appealing 
to  Murray,  who  had  been  out  with  him,  and  his  saying, 
'What  he  hit  is  history;  what  he  missed  is  mystery — 
a  double  joke,  taking  it  as  his-story  and  7ny-story.'  " 

Jan.  4-7,  1830. — At  Bowood.  "Dean  Ogle,  a  very 
absent  man,  has  been  known  more  than  once  at  a  strange 
table,  where  there  happened  not  to  be  a  very  good  dinner, 
to  burst  out  with,  '  Dear  me,  what  a  very  bad  dinner  !  I 
am  so  sorry  not  to  have  given  you  a  better,'  &c.  &c., 
thinking  himself  at  home." 

Jan.  4-7,  1830. — At  Bowood.  "Story  of  a  sick  man 
telling  his  symptoms  (which  appeared  to  himself,  of 
course,  dreadful),  to  a  medical  friend,  who,  at  each  new 
item  of  the  disorder,  exclaimed,  'Charming!'  'Delightful!' 
'Pray  go  on!'  and  when  he  had  finished,  said  with  the 
utmost  pleasure,  '  Do  you  know,  my  dear  sir,  you  have 
got  a  complaint  which  has  been  supposed  for  some  time 
to  be  extinct ! ' " 

26th  Feb.,  1830.— "At  Lord  Lansdowne's,  Charles 
Kemble  told  a  story  of  an  "  Irishman  mulcted  in  <£5  for 
beating  a  fellow,  and  saying,  'What,  five  pounds!  Well' 
(turning  to  the  patient),  'wait  till  I  get  you  in  Limerick, 
where  bating  is  cheap,  and  I'll  take  it  out  of  you.' " 

4th  May,  1830. — Evening  at  the  Duchess  Cannizzaro's. 
— "Lord  Dudley,  upon  being  asked  Avhether  he  had  read 
some  new  novel  of  Scott's,  said,  '  Why,  I  am  ashamed  to 
say  I  have  not;  but  I  have  hopes  it  Avill  soon  blow  over.' " 

In   1830  he  edited  The  Letters  and  Journals  of  Lmd 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  183 

Byron,  loith  Notices  of  his  Life.  This  work,  -whicli  ai^peared 
in  two  quarto  volumes,  compiled  from  Byron's  journals 
and  such  materials  as  he  could  subsequently  procure,  is 
interesting,  but  too  copious,  and,  as  might  be  expected, 
partial  and  lenient  in  its  criticism. 

Moore's  biographical  works,  although  industriously 
compiled,  are  somewhat  faulty  and  diffuse,  but  they 
all  abound  in  sparkling  passages;  his  notices  of  Lord 
Byron  are  generally  written  with  taste  and  modesty, 
and  in  very  pure  and  unaffected  English.  As  an  editor, 
however,  in  this  instance,  he  admits  far  too  much  trivial 
matter,  and  his  judgment  is  considerably  biassed  by 
friendship.  Yet  Lord  Macaulay  has  characterized  it  as  a 
lucid  narrative  "deserving  to  be  classed  amongst  the  best 
specimens  of  English  prose  which  any  age  has  produced." 
For  this  biography,  which  was  transferred  from  Long- 
mans to  Murray,  he  ultimately  obtained  £4870. 

Of  a  visit  to  Ireland  he  writes,  29th  Sept.  1830: — 
"  Altogether  our  visit  has  been  a  most  happy  one.  My 
mother  and  Nell  had  known  little  of  my  excellent  Bessy 
but  through  my  report  of  her,  it  being  now  fifteen  years 
since  they  had  (for  a  very  few  weeks,  and  living  in 
separate  houses)  any  opportunity  of  knoAving  her.  They 
have  now,  however,  had  her  with  them  as  one  of  them- 
selves, and  the  result  has  been  what  I  never  could  doabt 
it  would  be.  Her  devoted  attention  to  my  mother,  her 
affection  to  dear  Nell,  all  was  in  the  best  spirit  of  amiable- 
ness  and  good  sense.  Being  better  able  to  see,  than 
I  could,  all  the  little  things,  in  the  way  of  comfort,  that 
my  poor  mother's  establishment  wants,  she  has,  in  the 
nicest  and  most  delicate  way,  procured  them,  and  made  a 
few  pounds  do  wonders  in  this  way.  The  two  boys, 
too,  have  been  a  great  delight  to  my  mother.  Young 
Mulvaney  has  painted  a  picture  of  her  for  me,  with  Tom 


184  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

leaning  on  her  lap;  and  Lover  has  done  a  very  successful 
portrait  of  dear  Russell,  taking  his  idea  of  the  attitude, 
&c.,  from  my  song  of  '  Love  is  a  Hunter  Boy.' " 

In  Oct.  1830,  he  was  invited  on  a  visit  to  Watson 
Taylor's  to  meet  the  Duchess  of  Kent  and  our  Queen, 
then  the  young  Princess  Victoria.  Of  the  meeting,  he 
writes : — "  The  duchess  sung  a  duet  or  two  with  the 
Princess  Victoria,  and  several  pretty  German  songs  by 
herself.  One  or  two  by  Weber  and  Hummel  particularly 
pretty,  and  her  manner  of  singing  just  what  a  lady's 
ought  to  be.  No  attempt  at  bravura  or  graces,  but  all 
simplicity  and  expression.  I  also  sung  several  songs, 
with  which  her  R.  H.  was  pleased  to  be  pleased.  Evi- 
dently very  fond  of  music,  and  would  have  gone  on  sing- 
ing much  longer,  if  there  had  not  been  rather  premature 
preparations  for  bed.  .  .  .  After  breakfast  the 
duchess  expressed  a  wish  for  a  little  more  music,  and  she 
and  the  princess  and  myself  sung  a  good  deal.  The 
duchess  sung  over,  three  or  four  times,  with  me  'Go  where 
Glory  Waits  Thee,'  pronouncing  the  words  very  prettily, 
and  altogether  singing  it  more  to  my  taste  than  any  one 
I  ever  found.  Repeated  also  her  pretty  German  songs, 
and  very  graciously  promised  me  copies  of  them,  having 
intimated  how  much  she  should  like  to  have  copies  of 
those  songs  I  had  sung  for  her." 

Nov.  1830  (Prowses  and  Corry  dining  with  Moore). — 
"  Henry  Bushe's  account  of  his  place,  to  the  Sinecure 
Committee,  that  he  was  'Resident  Surveyor,  with  per- 
petual leave  of  absence.'  '  Don't  you  do  any  work  for  it?' 
'Nothing  but  receive  my  salary  four  times  a  year.'  'Do 
you  receive  that  yom-self  ■? '     '  No,  by  deputy.' " 

17th  Dec.  1830.— "Went  to  take  leave  of  Rogers,  who 
sends  by  me  to  Bessy  a  large-paper  copy  of  his  most 
beautiful  book,  Italy,  the  getting  up  of  which  has  cost  him 


LIKB   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  185 

£5000.  Told  me  of  a  squabble  he  has  had  with  the 
publisher  of  it,  who,  in  trying  to  justify  himself  for 
some  departure  from  his  original  agreement,  complained 
rather  imprudenly  of  the  large  sum  of  ready-money  he 
had  been  obliged  to  lay  out  upon  it.  '  As  to  that,'  said 
Rogers,  '  I  shall  remove  that  cause  of  complaint  instantly. 
'Bring  me  your  account.'  The  account  was  brought; 
something  not  much  short  of  £1500.  'There,'  said 
Rogers,  Avriting  a  cheque  for  the  whole  sum,  'I  shall 
leave  you  nothing  more  to  say  upon  that  ground.'  'Had 
I  been  a  poor  author '  (added  Rogers,  after  telling  me 
these  circumstances),  'I  should  have  been  his  slave  for 
life.'" 

17th  Dec.  1830. — "Brougham  mentioned  to-day  that, 
on  the  Princess  of  Wales'  coming  over  to  England,  it  was 
a  matter  of  discussion  among  a  party,  where  Lady 
Charlotte  Lindsay  was,  what  one  word  of  English,  Her 
Royal  Highness  (who  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  language) 
should  be  first  taught  to  speak.  The  whole  company 
agreed  that  '  yes '  was  the  most  useful  word,  except 
Lady  Charlotte,  who  suggested  that  '  no '  was  twice  as 
useful,  as  it  often  stood  for  '  yes.'  This  story,  Brougham 
said,  he  once  made  use  of  in  court,  in  commenting  on  the 
manner  in  which  a  witness  had  said  '  no.' " 

In  1831  was  published  his  Life  of  Lord  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald; followed  by  The  Summer  Fife,  a  poem,  celebrating 
an  entertainment  Avhich  had  been  given  at  Boyle  Farm 
in  1827. 

Boyle  Farm  was  the  seat  of  Lord  Henry  Fitzgerald, 
and  the  fete  had  been  given  by  five  noblemen,  who  sub- 
scribed four  or  five  hundred  pounds  each  towards  it.  The 
arrangements  were  all  in  the  best  taste.  The  beauty 
and  6lite  of  the  gay  world  was  assembled.  Four  hundred 
and  fifty  sat  down  to  dinner  in  a  tent  on  the  lawn,  and 


186  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

fifty  to  the  royal  table  in  the  conservatory.  Minstrels  sang 
and  played;  barcarolles  were  heard  dying  away.  Madame 
Vestris,  Fanny  Ayton,  and  others,  skimming  about  as 
dominoes  in  gondolas,  sang  Moore's  song,  '  Oh,  Come  to 
Me  when  Daylight  Sets.'  The  June  evening  was  deli- 
cious, and,  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark  the  groves  were  all 
lighted  up  with  coloured  lamps  in  quaint  devices.  There 
were  grottos  and  lakes,  and  the  lights  reflected  in  the 
water  gave  the  whole  an  oriental  or  fairy-like  aspect. 

Mrs.  Norton  was  one  of  those  who  had  been  present, 
and,  to  her,  Moore  dedicated  this  poem  suggested  by  the 
scene.  It  is  interspersed  with  songs  and  trios.  We 
quote  from  it  the  following  lines : — 

"  Now  in  his  Palace  of  the  "West, 

Sinking  to  slumber,  the  bright  Day, 
Like  a  tir'd  monarch  fann'd  to  rest, 

Mid  the  cool  airs  of  Evening  lay ; 
While  round  his  couch's  golden  rim 

The  gaudy  clouds,  like  courtiers,  crept — 
Struggling  each  other's  light  to  dim, 

And  catch  his  last  smile  e'er  he  slept. 
How  gay,  as  o'er  the  gliding  Thames 

The  golden  eve  its  lustre  pour'd. 
Shone  out  the  high-born  knights  and  dames 

Now  group'd  around  that  festal  board ; 
A  living  mass  of  plumes  and  flowers. 
As  though  they'd  robb'd  both  birds  and  bowers — 
A  peopled  rainbow,  swarming  through 
With  habitants  of  every  hue ; 
While,  as  the  sparkling  juice  of  France 
High  in  the  crystal  brimmers  flow'd. 

Each  sunset  ray  that  mix'd  by  chance 
With  the  wine's  sparkles,  show'd 

How  sunbeams  mav  be  taught  to  dance." 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  187 

"  Here  shone  a  garden — lamps  all  o'er, 

As  though  the  Spirits  of  the  Air 
Had  tak'n  it  in  their  heads  to  jjour 

A  shower  of  summer  meteors  there ; — 
While  here  a  lighted  shrubb'ry  led 

To  a  small  lake  that  sleeping  lay, 
Cradled  in  foliage,  but,  o'er-head, 

Open  to  heaven's  sweet  breath  and  ray; 
While  round  its  rim  there  burning  stood 

Lamps,  with  young  flowers  beside  them  bedded, 
That  shrunk  from  such  warm  neighbourhood ; 
And,  looking  bashful  in  the  flood, 

Blush'd  to  behold  themselves  so  wedded. 

"  Hither,  to  this  embower'd  retreat. 
Fit  but  for  nights  so  still  and  sweet ; 
Nights,  such  as  Eden's  calm  recall 
In  its  first  lonely  hour,  when  aU 

So  silent  is,  below,  on  high, 

That  if  a  star  falls  down  the  sky, 
You  almost  think  you  hear  it  fall — 
Hither,  to  this  recess,  a  few. 

To  shun  the  dancers'  wild'ring  noise, 
And  give  an  hour,  ere  night-time  flew. 

To  Music's  more  ethereal  joys, 
Came  with  their  voices — ready  all 
As  Echo,  waiting  for  a  call — 
In  hymn  or  ballad,  dirge  or  glee, 
To  weave  their  mingling  minstrelsy. 

"  And,  first,  a  dark-ey'd  nymph,  array 'd — 
Like  her,  whom  Art  hath  deathless  niatle, 
Bright  Mona  Lisa — with  that  braid 
Of  hair  across  the  brow,  and  one 
Small  gem  that  in  the  centre  shone — 
With  face,  too,  in  its  foi'm  resembling 

Da  Vinci's  Beauties — the  dark  eyes, 
Now  lucid,  as  through  crystal  trembling, 

Now  soft,  as  if  suU'us'd  with  sighs — 
13 


188  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Her  lute,  that  hung  beside  her,  took, 
And,  bending  o'er  it  with  shy  look, 
More  beautiful,  in  shadow  thus. 
Than  when  with  life  most  luminous, 
Pass'd  her  light  finger  o'er  the  chords, 
And  sung  to  them  these  mournful  words : — • 


'Bring  hither,  bring  thy  lute,  while  day  is  dying-- 

Here  will  I  lay  me,  and  list  to  thy  song; 
Should  tones  of  other  days  mix  with  its  sighing. 

Tones  of  a  light  heart,  now  banish'd  so  long, 
Chase  them  away — they  bring  but  pain. 
And  let  thy  theme  be  woe  again. 

'  Sing  on,  thou  mournful  lute — day  is  fast  going. 
Soon  will  its  light  from  thy  chords  die  away ; 
One  little  gleam  in  the  west  is  still  glowing, 

When  that  hath  vanish'd,  farewell  to  thy  lay. 
Mark,  how  it  fades  ! — see,  it  is  fled ! 
Now,  sweet  lute,  be  thou,  too,  dead. 


"Who'll  buy?— 'tis  Folly's  shop,  who'U  buy?— 
We've  toys  to  suit  all  ranks  and  ages; 
Besides  our  usual  fools'  supply. 

We've  lots  of  playthings,  too,  for  sages. 
For  reasoners,  here's  a  juggler's  cup. 

That  fullest  seems  when  nothing's  in  it ; 
And  nine-pins  set,  like  systems,  up. 

To  be  knock'd  down  the  following  minute. 
Who'll  buy  ? — 'tis  Folly's  shop,  who'll  buy  ? 

"  Gay  caps  we  here  of  f oolscaj)  make. 

For  bards  to  wear  in  dog-day  weather; 
Or  bards,  the  bells,  alone  may  take. 
And  leave  to  wits  the  cap  and  feather. 


LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  189 

Tetotums  we've  for  patriots  got, 

Who  court  the  mob  with  antics  humble; 

Like  theirs,  the  patriot's  dizzy  lot, 
A  glorious  spin,  and  then — a  tumble. 

Who'll  buy,  &c.  &c. 

"  Here,  wealthy  misers  to  inter, 

We've  shrouds  of  neat  post-obit  paper ; 
While,  for  their  heirs,  we've  quicksilver, 
That,  fast  as  they  can  wish,  will  caper. 
For  aldermen  we've  dials  true, 

That  tell  no  hour  but  that  of  dinner ; 
For  courtly  parsons  sermons  new, 
That  suit  alike  both  saint  and  sinner. 

Who'll  buy,  &c.  &c. 

"  No  time  we've  now  to  name  our  terms, 

But,  whatsoe'er  the  whims  that  seize  you, 
This  oldest  of  all  mortal  firms. 

Folly  and  Co.,  will  try  to  please  you. 
Or,  should  you  wish  a  darker  hue 

Of  goods  than  we  can  recommend  you. 
Why  then  (as  we  with  lawyers  do) 

To  Knaver's  shop  next  door  we'll  send  you. 
Who'll  buy,  &c.  &c." 

In  his  diary  we  find  the  following  entries : — 
1.5th  Feb.,  1831  (in  Dublin). — "Some  conversation 
with  old  Peter  Burrows.  Agreed  with  me  in  opinion 
that  O'Connell  had  done  more  harm  to  the  cause  of 
liberty  in  Ireland  than  its  real  friends  could  repair  within 
the  next  half  century;  and  mentioned  what  Grattan  had 
said  of  him — that  '  He  was  a  bad  subject,  and  a  worse 
rebel.'  This  is  admirable;  true  to  the  life,  and  in 
Grattan's  happiest  manner.  The  lurking  appreciation  of 
a  good  rebel  which  it  implies  is  full  of  humour." 

20th  Feb.,  1831  (of  Lady  Lansdownc).— "  Had  a  long 
conversation  with  her,  and  came  away  (as  T  always  do) 


190  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

more  and  more  impressed  with  the  excellent  qualities  of 
her  mind  and  heart;  even  her  very  faults  are  but  the 
selvage  of  fine  and  sound  virtues." 

"On  the  28th  (March,  1831),  Bessy  went  with  me  to 
dine  at  Lacock,  and  w^as  much  delighted  with  her  visit, 
from  which  we  returned  home  next  day.  Lady  E.  Avhis- 
pered  me,  on  our  arrival,  'I  take  for  granted  there  is 
nobody  dying  in  your  neighbourhood,  or  we  should  not 
have  had  Mrs.  Moore's  company  to-day.'  It  is  true  that 
she  is  never  half  so  hajjpy  as  when  helping  those  who 
want  assistance,  or  comforting  those  who  are  afflicted." 

28th  April,  1831  (at  Eogers'). —  "A  curious  conversa- 
tion after  dinner  from  my  saying  that  '  after  all,  it  was  in 
high  life  one  met  the  best  society;'  Rogers  violently  o'p- 
posing  me;  he,  too,  of  all  men,  who  (as  I  took  care  to 
tell  him)  had  throughout  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
shown  practically  that  he  agreed  with  me,  by  confining 
himself  almost  exclusively  to  this  class  of  society.  It  is, 
indeed,  the  power  which  these  great  people  have  of  com- 
manding, among  other  luxuries,  the  presence  of  such  men 
as  he  is,  at  their  tables,  that  sets  their  circle  (taking  all  its 
advantages  into  account)  indisputably  above  all  others  in 
the  way  of  society. — Said,  with  some  bitterness,  that,  on 
the  contrary,  the  high  class  were  the  vulgarest  people  one 
met.  Vulgar  enough,  God  knows!  some  of  them  are; 
vulgar  in  mind,  which  is  the  worst  sort  of  vulgarity.  But, 
to  say  nothing  of  women,  where,  in  any  rank  or  station  of 
life,  could  one  find  men  better  worth  living  with,  whether 
for  manners,  information,  or  any  other  of  the  qualities 
that  render  society  agreeable,  than  such  persons  as  Lords 
Holland,  Grey,  Carlisle,  Lansdowne,  Cowper,  King,  Mel- 
bourne, Carnarvon,  John  Russell,  Dudley,  Normanby, 
Morpeth,  Mahon,  and  numbers  of  others  that  I  can  speak 
of  from  personal  knowledge?" 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  191 

15th  June,  1831. — "In  writing  to  Sydney  Smith,  to- 
day, sending  hini.  Crabbe's  address,  which  he  wanted,  I 
said  that  '  I  was  sorry  he  had  gone  away  so  soon  from 
Ellis'  the  other  night,  as  I  had  improved  (i.e.  my  singing) 
afterwards,  and  he  was  one  of  the  few  I  always  wished  to 
do  my  best  for.'  In  answer  to  this,  received  the  following 
flattering  note  from  him,  written,  evidently,  under  the  im- 
pression that  I  had  been  annoyed  by  his  going  away : — 

" '  My  Dear  Moore, — By  the  beard  of  the  prelate  of  Canter- 
bury, by  the  cassock  of  the  prelate  of  York,  by  the  breakfasts 
of  Rogers,  by  Luttrell's  love  of  side-dishes,  I  swear  that  I  had 
rather  hear  you  sing  than  any  person  I  ever  heard  in  my  life, 
male  or  female.  For  what  is  your  singing  but  beautiful  poetry 
floating  in  fine  music  and  guided  by  exquisite  feeling?  Call 
me  Dissenter,  say  that  my  cassock  is  ill  put  on,  that  I  know 
not  the  delicacies  of  decimation,  and  confound  the  greater 
and  smaller  tithes;  but  do  not  think  or  say  that  I  a«l  in- 
sensible to  your  music.  The  truth  is,  that  I  took  a  solemn 
oath  to  Mrs.  Beauclerk  to  be  there  by  ten,  and  set  off,  to  pi-e- 
vent  perjury,  at  eleven ;  but  was  seized  with  a  violent  pain  in 
my  stomach  by  the  way,  and  went  to  bed. — Yours  ever,  my 
dear  Moore,  very  sincerely,  Sydney  Smith.'  " 

17th  June,  1831.— "Met  Bishop,  at  Power's,  to  ar- 
range about  my  music.  Mentioned  what  some  of  the  fine 
ladies  of  the  Bazaar  had  told  me  of  the  trouble  some  of 
their  customers  had  given  in  looking  over  different  things 
and  not  buying  any;  and  that  they  were  sure  some  of  the 
tradesmen  they  had  themselves  plagued  in  this  way  had 
come  there  expressly  to  turn  the  tables  on  them.  Bishop 
remarked  that  this  would  tell  very  well  in  a  farce,  and  so 
it  would." 

18th  June,  1831.— "Walked  with  Sydney  Smith;  tokl 
me  his  age;  turned  sixty.  Asked  me  how  I  felt  about 
dying.    Answered  that  if  my  mind  was  but  at  ease  about 


192  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

the  comfort  of  those  I  left  behind,  I  should  leave  the 
world  without  much  regret,  having  passed  a  very  happy- 
life,  and  enjoyed  (as  much,  perhaps,  as  ever  man  did  yet) 
all  that  is  enjoyable  in  it;  the  only  single  thing  I  have 
had  to  complain  of  being  want  of  money.  I  could 
therefore  die  with  the  same  words  that  Jortin  died,  '  I 
have  had  enough  of  everything.'  " 

17th  Nov.,  1831. — "Left  Eogers's  with  Campbell,  who 
told  me,  as  we  walked  along,  the  friendly  service  which 
Rogers  had  jvist  done  him  by  consenting  to  advance 
£500 ;  which  Campbell  wants  at  this  moment  to  pur- 
chase a  share  in  the  new  (Metropolitan)  magazine  of 
which  he  is  editor,  the  opportunity,  if  let  slip  now,  being 
wholly  lost  to  him.  Campbell  had  offered  as  security  an 
estate,  worth  between  four  and  iive  thousand  pounds, 
which  he  has  in  Scotland,  but  Rogers  had  very  gener- 
ously said  that  he  did  not  w^nt  security;  Campbell,  how- 
ever, was  resolved  to  give  it.  These  are  noble  things  of 
Rogers,  and  he  does  more  of  such  things  than  the  world 
has  any  notion  of." 

To  this  entry  in  Moore's  diary  Lord  John  Russell 
appends  the  following  foot-note : — "  Not  only  more  than 
the  world  has  any  notion  of,  but  more  than  any  one  else 
could  have  done.  Being  himself  an  author,  he  was  able 
to  guess  the  difficulties  of  men  of  letters,  and  to  assist 
them,  not  only  Avith  his  ready  purse,  but  with  his  power- 
ful influence  and  his  judicious  advice."  In  this  particular 
instance,  however,  Campbell  afterwards  found  that  the 
speculation  would  not  be  to  his  advantage,  and  returned 
the  money. 

Nov.  3d-9th,  1831.— "Saw  my  'Lord  Edward'  an- 
nounced as  one  of  the  articles  in  the  Quarterly — to  be 
abused,  of  course;  and  this,  so  immediately  after  my 
dinings  and  junketings  Avith  both  editor  and  publisher! 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  193 

Having  occasion  to  write  to  Murray,  sent  him  the  follow- 
ing squib : — 

THOUGHTS   ON   EDITORS. 

EDITUR   ET   EDIT. 

No,  editors  don't  care  a  button 

What  false  and  faithless  things  they  do; 

They'll  let  you  come  and  cut  their  mutton. 
And  then  they'll  have  a  cut  at  you. 

With  Baimes  I  oft  my  dinner  took, 

Nay,  met  even  Horace  Twiss  to  please  him; 

Yet  Mr.  Barnes  traduced  my  book, 

For  which  may  his  own  devils  seize  him! 

With  Doctor  Bowring  I  drank  tea, 
Nor  of  his  cakes  consumed  a  particle; 

And  yet  th'  vmgrateful  LL.D. 

Let  fly  at  me  next  week  an  article. 

John  Wilson  gave  me  suppers  hot. 

With  bards  of  fame  like  Hogg  and  Packwood, 

A  dose  of  black  strap  then  I  got, 

And  after  a  still  worse  of  Blackwood. 

Alas!  and  must  I  close  the  list 

With  thee,  my  Lockhart,  of  the  Quarterly, 

So  kind,  with  bumper  in  thy  fist, — 
With  pen,  so  very  grutf  and  tartarly. 

Now  in  thy  j^avlour  feasting  me. 

Now  scribbling  at  me  from  thy  garret, — 

Till,  'twixt  the  two,  in  doubt  I  be 
Which  sourest  is,  thy  wit  or  claret." 

27th  March,  1832.—"  Breakfasted  at  Rogers'.  Proctor 
told  of  Charles  Lamb  saying  to  ,  in  his  odd,  stam- 
mering Avay,  on  's  making  some  remark,  'Johnson 

has  said  worse  things  than  that;'    then,  after  a  short 
pause,  'and  better.'' 


194  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  Barnes  at  Longman's  told  a  similar  saying  of  his — 
'You  have  no  mock  modesty  about  you,  nor  real  either.'" 

30th  March,  1832. — "Van  Buren,  the  American  am- 
bassador said,  *If  there  is  anything  which  rank  and 
station  cannot  do  in  England,  I  have  not  found  it  out.' 
He  then  added  (what  struck  me  a  good  deal,  both  as 
coming  from  a  republican  and  as  agreeing  perfectly  with 
my  own  opinion),  'But  still  I  must  say  that  rank  and 
station  in  England  deserves  (as  far  as  society  goes)  the 
value  set  upon  it;  for  I  have  found  that  the  higher  one 
rises  in  the  atmosphere  the  purer  the  tone  of  society  is.' 
Told  him  how  much  this  coincided  with  the  whole  of  my 
own  experience;  I  was  glad  to  be  backed  in  my  opinion 
by  such  an  authority  as  his,  coming,  as  he  did,  free  from 
all  our  little  prepossessions  and  amljitions,  and  being  in 
this  respect  so  much  more  qualified  to  form  an  impartial 
judgment.  He  expressed,  at  the  same  time,  strong  dis- 
gust at  the  perpetual  struggle,  towards  this  higher  region, 
that  was  visible  in  those  below  it;  all  trying  to  get  above 
their  own  sjjhere,  and  sacrificing  comfort  and  temper  in 
the  ineffectual  effort.  I  agreed  with  him,  and  said  it  was 
like  the  exercise  of  the  tread-mill;  perpetual  climbing 
without  ever  mounting.  It  was,  indeed,  the  absence  of 
this  sort  of  ambitious  effort  that  gave  the  upper  classes 
so  much  more  repose  of  manner,  and  made  them,  accord- 
ingly, so  much  better  company." 

Moore  was  repeatedly  and  earnestly  urged  to  stand  as 
a  member  for  Parliament.  The  people  of  Limerick  even 
pledged  themselves  to  purchase  and  present  him  with  an 
estate,  worth  about  =£400  a  year,  if  he  would  comply  with 
their  requisition.  O'Connell  used  his  influence  in  the 
same  direction,  and  deputations  waited  upon  him,  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  Moore  stated  his  reasons  for  declining 
the  intended  honour  in  the  following  sensible  and  manly 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE,  195 

letter,  of  which  William  Curran  wrote,  "I  join  most 
heartily  with  you  in  your  admiration  of  Moore's  address. 
It  breathes  the  dignity  of  the  bard,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
gentleman,  the  latter  rather  a  novelty  of  late  here." 

"  Sloperton  Cottage,  Nov.  8th,  1832. 

"Gentlemen, — I  have  to  acknowledge,  with  every  feeling 
of  respect  and  gratitude,  the  requisition  so  numerously  signed 
which  I  have  this  day  had  the  honour  of  receiving  from  you. 
Aheady  had  I  been  in  a  great  degree  prepared  for  such  a  call 
by  a  correspondence  in  which  I  have  been  engaged  by  one 
of  your  fellow-citizens,  and  which,  though  but  preliminary 
to  the  decisive  step  which  has  now  been  taken,  had  put  me 
fuHy  in  possession  of  the  kind  feelings  entertained  towards 
me  by  the  greater  portion  of  the  enlightened  electors  of  your 
city. 

"To  know  that  even  a  thought  of  selecting  me  as  their 
i-epresentative  had  once  entered  into  the  contemplation  of  per- 
sons like  yourselves,  so  well  qualified  by  a  zealous  sense  of 
the  value  of  liberty  to  judge  of  the  requisites  of  those  to 
wliom  such  a  trust  should  be  confided,  would  in  itself  have 
been  a  source  of  pride  and  gratification  to  my  mind  ;  you  may 
judge,  therefore,  what  are  my  feelings  on  receiving  so  signal 
a  proof,  both  in  the  cordial  and  unsought  requisition  which 
has  this  morning  reached  me,  and  in  those  further  proceedings 
which  I  understand  you  meditate,  that  the  honour  you  did 
me  in  selecting  my  name  from  among  the  many  offered  to 
you  was  no  light  or  transient  compliment,  but  that  you  de- 
liberately think  me  worthy  of  being  the  representative  of  your 
interests  in  the  great  crisis,  as  well  for  England  as  for  Ireland, 
which  is  now  approaching. 

"  But,  gentlemen,  rarely  in  this  life  can  so  high  and  bright 
a  position  as  that  in  which  your  offer  now  places  me  be  en- 
joyed without  its  opposing  shadow ;  and  in  proportion  to  the 
pleasure,  the  triumph,  which  I  cannot  but  feel  at  this  mani- 
festation of  your  opinion, — placing,  as  it  does,  within  my 
reach  a  post  of  honour  which  T  liave  so  often  in  the  ambition 


196  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

of  my  young  clays  sighed  for, — in  iDroportion  to  my  deep  and 
thorough  sense  of  the  distinction  you  would  thus  confer  upon 
me,  is  the  pain  with  which  I  am  compelled  reluctantly  to 
declare  that  I  cannot  accept  it.  The  truth,  plainly  told,  is, 
that  my  circumstances  render  such  an  appropriation  of  my 
time  impossible :  not  even  for  a  single  session  could  I  devote 
myself  to  the  duties  of  Parliament  without  incurring  consider- 
able embarrassment.  To  the  labour  of  the  day,  in  short,  am 
I  indebted  for  my  daily  support ;  and  though  it  is  by  being 
content  with  this  lot  that  I  have  been  able  to  pi'eserve  that 
independence  of  mind  which  has  now  so  honourably  and,  I 
may  be  allowed  to  boast,  in  so  many  quarters  won  for  me  the 
confidence  of  my  fellow-countrymen,  it  is  not  the  less  an  in- 
superable impediment  to  the  acceptance  of  the  high  honour 
you  offer  me. 

"  I  am  not  unaware,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  that,  in 
your  strong  and  generous  desire  to  remove  this  only  obstacle 
which  you  know  opposed  itself  to  my  compliance  with  your 
wishes,  you  have  set  on  foot  a  national  subscription  for  the 
purpose,  as  you  yourselves  express  it,  of  providing  me  with 
the  qualification  necessary  for  a  member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. This  proof  of  your  earnestness  in  the  cause  I  feel,  both 
on  public  and  private  grounds,  most  sensibly.  But,  however 
honourable  I  might  deem  such  a  gift  after  the  peiformance  of 
services  in  Parliament,  I  see  objections  to  it  which  to  me  are 
insurmountable.  Were  I  obliged  to  choose  which  should  be 
my  direct  paymaster,  the  Government  or  the  People,  I  should 
say  without  hesitation  the  People;  but  I  prefer  holding  on 
my  free  course,  humble  as  it  is,  unpurchased  by  either;  nor 
shall  I  the  less  continue,  as  far  as  my  limited  sphere  of  action 
extends,  to  devote  such  laowers  as  God  has  gifted  me  with,  to 
that  cause  which  has  always  been  upj^ermost  in  my  heart, 
which  was  my  first  inspiration  and  shall  be  my  last, — the 
cause  of  Irish  freedom. — I  have  the  honour  to  be,  gentlemen, 
your  faithful  and  devoted  servant,  Thomas  Moore." 

The  following  epigram  was  called  forth  by  the  project 
for  making  Moore  member  for  Limerick : — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  197 

"  When  Limerick,  in  idle  whim, 

Moore  as  her  member  lately  courted, 
^       *  The  boys,'  for  form's  sake,  ask'd  of  him, 
To  state  what  party  he  supported. 

"  When,  thus,  his  answer  promptly  ran 
(Now  give  the  wit  his  mead  of  glory), 
*  I'm  of  no  party,  as  a  man, — ■ 
But  as  a  poet,  am-a-tory.' " 

Gerald,  who  was  one  of  the  deputation  from  Limerick, 
thus  describes  his  visit  to  Sloperton,  the  previous  year, 
in  a  letter  dated  March  31,  1833,  and  addressed  to  a  fair 
Quaker  friend: — "We  drove  away  until  we  came  to  a 
cottage — a  cottage  of  gentility,  with  two  gateways  and 
pretty  grounds  about  it;  and  we  alighted  and  knocked 
at  the  hall-door;  and  there  was  dead  silence,  and  we 
whispered  one  another;  and  my  nerves  thrilled  as  the 
wind  rustled  in  the  creeping  shrubs  that  graced  the 
retreat  of  Moore.  .  .  .  The  door  opened,  and  a  young 
Avoman  appeared.  '  Is  Mr.  Moore  at  home  1 '  '  I'll  see, 
sir.  What  name  shall  I  say,  sir?'  Well,  not  to  be  too 
IDarticular,  we  were  shoAvn  upstairs,  where  we  found  the 
nightingale  in  his  cage ;  in  honester  language,  and  more 
to  the  purpose,  we  found  our  hero  in  his  study,  a  table 
before  him  covered  Avith  books  and  papers,  a  drawer 
half-opened  and  stuffed  with  letters,  a  piano  also  open  at 
a  little  distance;  and  the  thief  himself,  a  little  man,  but 
full  of  spirits,  with  eyes,  hands,  feet,  and  frame  for  ever 
in  motion,  looking  as  if  it  would  be  a  feat  for  him  to  sit 
for  three  minutes  quiet  in  his  chair.  I  am  no  great 
observer  of  proportions,  but  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
neat-made  little  fellow,  tidily  buttoned  up,  young  as 
fifteen  at  heart,  though  with  hair  that  reminded  me  of 
'Alps  in  the  sunset;'  not  handsome,  perhaps,  but  some- 
thing in  the  whole  cut  of  him  that  pleased  me ;  finished 


198  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

as  an  actor,  but  without  an  actor's  affectation ;  easy  as  a 
gentleman,  but  without  some  gentlemen's  formality.  In 
a  word,  as  people  say  when  they  find  their  brains  begin 
to  run  aground  at  the  fag-end  of  a  magnificent  period,  we 
found  him  a  hospitable,  warm-hearted  Irishman,  as  plea- 
sant as  could  be,  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  others  so. 
And  is  this  enough?  And  need  I  tell  you  the  day  was 
spent  delightfully,  chiefly  in  listening  to  his  innumerable 
jests  and  admirable  stories,  and  beautiful  similes — beauti- 
ful and  original  as  those  he  throws  into  his  songs — and 
anecdotes  that  would  make  the  Danes  laugh?  and  how 
we  did  all  we  could,  I  believe,  to  get  him  to  stand  for 
Limerick;  and  how  we  called  again  the  day  after,  and 
walked  with  him  about  his  little  garden ;  and  how  he  told 
us  he  always  wrote  walking;  and  how  we  came  in  again 
and  took  luncheon;  and  how  I  was  near  forgetting  that 
it  was  Friday  (which  you  know  I  am  rather  apt  to  do  in 
pleasant  company);  and  how  he  walked  with  us  through 
the  fields,  and  wished  us  good-bye,  and  left  us  to  do  as 
well  as  we  could  without  him?" 

At  this  time  he  chiefly  adhered  to  prose,  and  only 
occasionally  wrote  verse,  in  the  shape  of  political  squils 
or  satires,  for  The  Times  or  the  Morning  Chronicle,  for 
which  service  he  was  paid  at  the  rate  of  about  <£400  a  year. 
These  biting  epigrams  derived  their  point  from  current 
events  long  passed  away,  and,  consequently,  many  of 
them  seem,  comparatively,  flat  and  uninteresting.  Here, 
however,  is  a  perennial : — 

TRANSLATION   FROM  THE  GULL  LANGUAGE. 

'Twas  grav'd  on  the  Stone  of  Destiny, 
In  letters  four,  and  letters  thi'ee; 
And  ne'er  did  the  King  of  the  Gulls  go  by 
But  those  awful  letters  scar'd  his  eye; 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  199 

For  he  knew  tluit  a  Prophet  Voice  had  said, 
"  As  long  as  those  words  by  man  were  read, 
The  ancient  race  of  the  Gulls  should  ne'er 
One  hour  of  peace  or  plenty  share." 
But  years  on  yeai's  successive  flew, 
And  the  lettei's  still  more  legible  grew, — 
At  top,  a  T,  an  H,  an  E, 
And  underneath,  D.  E.  B.  T. 

Some  thought  them  Hebrew, — such  as  Jews, 
More  skill'd  in  Scrip  than  Scrij^ture,  use; 
While  some  surmis'd  'twas  an  ancient  way 
Of  keeping  accounts,  (well  known  in  the  day 
Of  the  fam'd  Didlerius  Jeremias, 
Who  had  thereto  a  wonderful  bias,) 
And  prov'd  in  books  most  learnedly  boring, 
'Twas  called  the  Pon^i'c^-  way  of  scoinng. 

Howe'er  this  be,  there  never  were  yet 

Seven  letters  of  the  alphabet, 

That  'twixt  them  form'd  so  grim  a  spell. 

Or  scar'd  a  Land  of  Gulls  so  well. 

As  did  this  awful  riddle-me-ree 

Of  T.  H.  E.   D.  E.  B.  T. 

Hark  ! — it  is  struggling  Freedom's  cry; 

Help,  help,  ye  nations,  or  I  die; 

'Tis  freedom's  fight,  and,  on  the  field 

Whei-e  I  expire,  your  doom  is  seal'd." 

The  Gull-King  hears  the  awakening  call, 

He  hath  summon'd  his  Peers  and  Patriots  all, 

And  he  asks,  "Ye  noble  Gulls,  shall  we 

Stand  basely  by  at  the  fall  of  the  Free, 

Nor  utter  a  curse,  nor  deal  a  blow  1 " 

And  they  answer,  with  voice  of  thunder,  "  No." 

Out  fly  their  flashing  swords  in  the  air! — 
But, — why  do  they  rest  suspended  there? 
What  sudden  blight,  what  baleful  charm, 
Hath  chill'd  each  eye,  and  check'd  each  arm? 


200  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Alas  !  some  withering  Laud  hath  thrown 
The  veil  from  off  that  fatal  stone, 
And  pointing  now,  with  sapless  finger, 
Showeth  where  dark  those  letters  linger, — 
Letters  four,  and  letters  three, 
T.  H.  E.    D.  E.  B.  T. 

At  sight  thereof,  each  lifted  brand 

Powerless  falls  from  every  hand; 

^n  vain  the  Patriot  knits  his  brow,- 

Even  talk,  his  sta]ile,  fails  him  now. 

In  vain  the  King  like  a  hero  treads, 

His  Lords  of  the  Treasury  shake  their  heads; 

And  to  all  his  talk  of  "  brave  and  free," 

No  answer  getteth  His  Majesty 

But  "  T.  H.  E.    D.  E.  B.  T." 

In  short,  the  whole  Gull  nation  feels 
They're  fairly  spell-bound,  neck  and  heels; 
And  so,  in  the  face  of  the  laughing  world. 
Must  e'en  sit  down,  with  banners  furl'd, 
Adjourning  all  their  dreams  sublime 
Of  glory  and  war  to — some  other  time. 

In  1833  followed  Travels  of  an  Irish  Ge?iilem.an  in 
Search  of  a  Eeligion,  a  j^erfectly  serious  and  earnest  book, 
in  defence  of  the  Roman  Catholic  system.  These  imagi- 
nary travels  were  published  anonymously,  but  were  always 
known  to  have  been  written  by  Moore.  The  poetical  trans- 
lations from  the  fathers,  such  as  the  renderings  from  the 
homilies  of  St.  Basil  and  St.  Chrysostom,  instead  of  being 
grave  and  severe  in  stjde,  as  one  might  expect,  read  very 
much  as  if  they  might  have  appeared  in  the  Loves  of  the 
Angels.  Of  the  work  it  has  been  said: — "  There  is  a  vast 
amount  of  erudition  displayed  in  its  pages;  and,  remem- 
bering how  slow  and  painstaking  a  workman  Moore 
declared  himself  to  be,  it  must,  one  would  suppose,  have 
been  the  work  of  years.     The  author's  object  is  to  prove, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  201 

from  tlie  writings  of  the  early  fathers  and  other  evidence, 
that  the  pecuKar  dogmas  and  discipHne  and  practice  of 
the  Church  of  Eome  date  from  the  apostolic  age,  or  at 
least  from  the  first  centuries  of  the  Christian  era,  and  are 
consequently  true.  This  the  writer  does,  at  least,  entirely 
to  his  own  satisfaction ;  which  is  generally  the  case,  we  be- 
lieve, Avith  controversial  writers.  The  book  concludes  with 
the  following  words,  addressed  to  the  Catholic  Church, 
which  his  after-life  proves  to  have  been  earnest  and  sin- 
cere:— 'In  the  shadow  of  thy  sacred  mysteries  let  my 
soul  henceforth  repose,  remote  alike  from  the  infidel  who 
scoffs  at  their  darkness,  and  the  rash  believer  who  would 
pry  into  its  recesses.'  " 

His  journal  at  this  period  is  enlivened  by  the  following 
entries : — 

Gth  Feb.  1833  (at  Bowood).— "Talking  of  the  bread 
they  were  now  about  to  make  from  sawdust,  Sydney 
said,  people  would  soon  have  sprigs  coming  out  of  them. 
Young  ladies,  in  dressing  for  a  ball,  would  say,  '  Mamma, 
I'm  beginning  to  sprout.'  " 

6th  Feby.,  1833.— "On  Fontenelle  saying  that  he  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  had  a  good  heart,  some  one  rei:)lied, 
'Yes,  my  dear  Fontenelle,  you  have  as  good  a  heart  as 
can  be  made  out  of  brains.'" 

13th  Mar.  1833.— (Moore  says  of  Sydney  Smith):— 
"Sydney  is,  in  his  way,  inimitable;  and,  as  a  conversa- 
tional wit,  beats  all  the  men  I  have  ever  met.  Curran's 
fancy  went  much  higher,  but  also  much  lotver.  Sydney, 
in  his  gayest  flights,  though  boisterous,  is  never  vulgar." 

31st  March,  1833.  (Dining  at  Lansdowne  House.) — 
"  Luttrell  mentioned  rather  an  amusing  quaintness  he 
had  read  somewhere  lately.  In  speaking  of  some  young 
man  just  come  of  age,  it  was  said,  '  he  had  nothing  to  do, 
and  a  great  deal  of  money  to  do  it  with.' " 


202  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

26tli  May,  1833. — (Sir  Robert  Peel  characterized  Moore 
as)  "  one  who  has  done  honour  to  the  literature  of  his 
country  by  his  genius,  and  has  upheld  its  character  by  a 
high  spirit  of  integrity  and  independence." 

14th  Nov.  1833. — (Dining  a,t  Longmans',)  "Sydney- 
Smith,  in  talking  of  the  fun  he  had  had  in  the  early  times 
of  the  Edinburgh  Ilcvieiv,  mentioned  an  article  on  Kitson, 
which  he  and  Brougham  had  written  together;  and  one 
instance  of  their  joint  contribution  which  he  gave  me 
was  as  follows : — 'We  take  for  granted'  (wrote  Brougham), 
'  that  Mr.  Ritson  supposes  Providence  to  have  had  some 
share  in  producing  him — though  for  what  inscrutable 
purposes  (added  Sydney)  Ave  profess  ourselves  unable  to 
conjecture.'  " 

20th  April,  1834. — "A  beautiful  present  from  Mr. 
Costello,  of  a  cup  formed  out  of  the  calabash-nut,  which 
he  brought  some  years  ago  for  me  from  Bermuda;  taken 
from  the  tree  which  is  there  shown  as  one  I  used  to  sit 
under,  while  writing  my  poems.  The  cup  very  hand- 
somely and  tastefully  mounted,  and  Bessy  all  delight 
about  it." 

June  12,  1834. — Brabant  "mentioned  in  the  course  of 
our  conversation  that  Sir  Astley  Cooper  had  in  one  year 
made  £24,000." 

12th  Aug.,  1834.—"  Went  (from  Miss  Costello's)  to  the 
Hollands,  where  I  found  a  scene  that  would  rather  have 
alarmed,  I  think,  a  Tory  of  the  full-dress  school.  There 
was  the  Chancellor  in  his  black  frockcoat,  black  cravat; 
while  upon  the  sofa  lay  stretched  the  Prime  Minister, 
also  in  frock  and  boots,  and  with  his  legs  cocked  up  on 
one  of  Lady  Holland's  tine  chairs.  Beside  him  sat  Lord 
Holland,  and  at  some  distance  from  this  group  was  my 
Lady  herself,  seated  at  a  table  with  Talleyrand,  and 
occupying  him  in  conversation  to  divert   his  attention 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  203 

from  the  ministerial  confali  at  the  sofa.  Joined  these 
two,  being  the  first  time  that  1  AV'as  ever  regularly  intro- 
duced to  Talleyrand." 

Sept.  16,  1834.— Sydney  Smith,  "talking  of  the  bad 
effects  of  late  hours,  and  saying  of  some  distinguished 
diner-out,  that  there  would  be  on  his  tomb  'He  dined 
late ' — '  and  died  early,'  rejoined  Luttrell." 

In  the  middle  of  Dec,  1834,  Moore  was  saddened  by 
the  death  of  his  sister  Kate. 

The  Ilistorij  of  Iniand  {4  a'oIs.  12mo)  appeared  in 
1835,  and  was  written  for  Lardner's  Cabinet  Cyclopedia. 
It  embraced  a  long  period,  from  the  earliest  king  to  the 
latest  chief.  It  is  admitted  to  be  a  very  important  work, 
and,  of  its  kind,  is  thought  to  be  his  best.  It  is  certainly 
an  interesting  and  careful  production,  though  by  no 
means  an  impartial  one. 

In  1835  he  published  The  Fudges  in  England,  a  volume 
of  humorous  sallies,  the  wit,  polish,  and  sparkle  of  which 
are  decidedly  better  of  their  kind,  than  the  sentimental 
songs  which  he  still  occasionally  wrote.  From  this 
volume  we  quote  the  following  "Letter:" — 

FROM    LARRY    o'bRANIGAN,    IN   ENGLAND,   TO    HIS   WIFE   JUDY, 
AT   MULLINAFAD. 

Dear  Judy,  I  sind  you  this  bit  of  a  letther, 

By  mail-coach  conveyance — for  want  of  a  betther — 

To  tell  you  what  luclc  in  this  world  I  have  had 

Since  I  left  the  sweet  cabin,  at  MuUinafad. 

Cell,  Judy,  that  night ! — when  the  pig  which  we  meant 

To  dry-nurse,  in  the  parlour,  to  pay  off  the  rent, 

Julianna,  the  craythur — that  name  was  the  death  of  her^ — 

1  The  Irish  peasantry  are  very  fond  of  giving  fine  names  to  their  pigs.  I 
have  liearil  of  one  instance  in  whieli  a  couple  of  young  pigs  were  named,  at 
their  birth,  Abelard  and  Heloise,  In  Scotland,  a  farmer,  near  Dumfries, 
called  a  pig  "Maud,"  because  it  always  acted  as  if  it  had  received  an  in- 
vitation to  "  come  into  the  garden  1 " 

14 


204  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Gave  us  the  shlip  and  we  saw' the  last  breath  of  her ! 
And  there  were  the  childher,  six  innocent  sowls, 
For  their  nate  little  play -fellow  tuning  up  howls; 
While  youreelf,  my  dear  Judy  (though  grievin's  a  folly), 
Stud  over  Julianna's  remains,  melancholy — 
Cryin',  half  for  the  craythur,  and  half  for  the  money, 
"  Arrah,  why  did  ye  die  till  we'd  sowl'd  you,  my  honey  ? " 

But  God's  will  be  done ! — and  then,  faith,  sure  enough, 
As  the  pig  was  desaiced,  'twas  high  time  to  be  off. 
So  we  gother'd  up  all  the  poor  duds  we  could  catch, 
Lock'd  the  owld  cabin-door,  put  the  kay  in  the  thatch, 
Then  tuk  laave  of  each  other's  sweet  lips  in  the  dark. 
And  set  off,  like  the  Cliristians  turn'd  out  of  the  Ark ; 
The  six  childher  with  you,  my  dear  Judy,  ochone ! 
And  poor  I  wid  myself,  left  condolin'  alone. 

How  I  came  to  this  England,  o'er  say  and  o'er  lands, 
And  what  cruel  hard  walkin'  I've  had  on  my  hands. 
Is,  at  this  present  writin',  too  tadious  to  sjieak, 
So  I'll  miution  it  all  in  a  postscript,  next  week : — 
Only  starv'd  I  was,  surely,  as  thin  as  a  lath, 
Till  I  came  to  an  up-and-down  place  they  call  Bath, 
Where,  as  luck  was,  I  manag'd  to  make  a  meal's  meat, 
By  dhraggin  owld  ladies  all  day  through  the  street — 
Which  their  docthors  (who  pocket,  like  fun,  the  pound 

starlins,) 
Have  brought  into  fashion  to  plase  the  owld  darlins. 
Div'l  a  boy  in  all  Bath,  though  /  say  it,  could  carry 
The  grannies  up  hill  half  so  handy  as  Larry ; 
And  the  higher  they  liv'd,  like  owld  crows,  in  the  air, 
The  more  /  was  wanted  to  lug  them  up  there. 

But  luck  has  two  handles,  dear  Judy,  they  say. 

And  mine  has  both  handles  put  on  the  wrong  way. 

For,  pondherin',  one  morn,  on  a  drame  I'd  just  had 

Of  yourself  and  the  babbies,  at  MuUinafad, 

Och,  there  came  o'er  my  sinses  so  plasin'  a  flutther. 

That  I  spilt  an  owld  Countess  right  clane  in  the  gutther, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  205 

Muff,  feathei-s  and  all ! — the  descint  was  most  awful, 
And — what  was  still  worse,  faith — I  knew  'twas  vinlawful; 
For,  though,  with  mere  loonien,  no  very  great  evil, 
T'  upset  an  owld  Countess  in  Bath  is  the  divil ! 
So,  liftin'  the  chair,  with  herself  safe  upon  it, 
(For  nothin'  about  her  was  hilt,  but  her  bonnet,) 
Without  even  mentionin'  "  By  your  lave,  ma'am," 
I  tuk  to  my  heels  and — here,  Judy,  I  am! 

What's  the  name  of  this  town  I  can't  say  very  well. 

But  you're  heart  sure  will  jump  when  you  hear  what  befell 

Your  own  beautiful  Larry,  the  very  fii-st  day, 

(And  a  Sunday  it  was,  shinin'  out  mighty  gay,) 

When  his  brogues  to  this  city  of  luck  found  their  way. 

Bein'  hungry,  God  help  me,  and  happenin  to  stop, 

Just  to  dine  on  the  shmell  of  a  jDasthry-cook's  shop, 

I  saw,  in  the  window,  a  large  printed  jsaper. 

And  read  there  a  name,  och  !  that  made  my  heart  caper — 

Though  printed  it  was  in  some  quare  ABC, 

That  might  bother  a  schoolmasther,  let  alone  me. 

By  gor,  you'd  have  laugh'd,  Judy,  could  you've  but  listen'd. 

As,  doubtin',  I  cried,  "Why  it  is! — no,  it  isnH:" 

But  it  teas,  after  all— for,  by  spellin'  quite  slow. 
First  I  made  out  "  Rev.  Mortimer" — then  a  great  "  0  ; " 
And,  at  last,  by  hard  readin'  and  rackin'  my  skull  again. 
Out  it  came,  nate  as  imported,  "  O'Mulligan  I " 

Up  I  jum^yd,  like  a  sky-lark,  my  jewel,  at  that  name, — 
Div'l  a  doubt  on  my  mind,  but  it  must  be  the  same. 
"  Masther  Murthagh,  himself,"  says  I,  "all  the  woiid  over! 
My  own  fosther-biother — by  jinks,  I'm  in  clover. 
Though  there,  in  the  play-bill,  he  figures  so  grand. 
One  wet-nurse  it  was  brought  us  both  up  by  hand. 
And  he'll  not  let  me  shtarve  in  the  inemy's  land ! " 

Well,  to  make  a  long  hishtory  short,  niver  doubt 
But  I  manag'd,  in  no  time,  to  find  the  lad  out; 
And  the  joy  of  the  meetin'  bethuxt  him  and  me, 
Such  a  i)air  of  owld  cumrogues — was  charmin'  to  see. 


206  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Nov  is  Mnrthagh  less  plas'd  with  tli'  evint  than  I  am, 
As  he  just  then  was  wanting  a  Valley-de-sham; 
And,  for  dressin'  a  gintleman,  one  way  or  t'other, 
Your  nate  Irish  lad  is  beyant  every  other. 

But  now,  Judy,  comes  the  quare  part  of  the  case; 
And,  in  throth,  it's  the  only  drawback  on  my  place, 
'Twas  Murthagh's  ill  luck  to  be  cross'd,  as  you  know, 
With  an  awkward  mishfoitune  some  short  time  ago ; 
That's  to  say,  he  turn'd  Protestant — w/i>j,  I  can't  larn ; 
But,  of  coorse,  he  knew  best,  an'  it's  not  mi/  consarn. 
All  I  know  is,  we  both  were  good  Cath'lics,  at  nurse, 
And  myself  am  so  still — nather  betther  nor  worse. 
Well,  our  bargain  was  all  right  and  tight  in  a  jiffey, 
And  lads  more  contint  never  yet  left  the  Liffey, 
When  Murthagh — or  Mortimer,  as  he's  now  christen'd, 
His  7ia7ne  being  convarted,  at  laist,  if  he  isn't — 
Lookin'  sly  at  me  (faith,  'twas  divartin'  to  see) 

"  0/  coorse,  you're  a  Protestant,  Larry,"  says  he. 
Upon  which  says  myself,  wid  a  wink  just  as  shly, 

"Is't  a  Protestant? — oh  yes,  I  am,  sii',  says  I;- — 
And  there  the  chat  ended,  and  div'l  a  more  word 
Controvarsial  between  us  has  since  then  occuir'd. 

What  Murthagh  could  mane,  and,  in  troth,  Judy  dear. 

What  /  myself  meant,  doesn't  seem  mighty  clear ; 

But  the  thruth  is,  though  still  for  the  Owld  Light  a  sticklei-, 

I  was  just  then  too  shtarv'd  to  be  over  jmrtic'lar: — 

And,  God  knows,  between  us,  a  comic'ler  pair 

Of  twin  Protestants  couldn't  be  seen  an)/  where. 

Next  Tuesday  (as  towld  in  the  play-bills  I  mintion'd, 
Address'd  to  the  loyal  and  godly  intintion'd,) 
His  rivirence,  my  master,  comes  forward  to  preach, — 
Myself  doesn't  know  wliether  sarmon  or  speech, 
But  it's  all  one  to  him,  he's  a  dead  hand  at  eacli ; 
Like  us,  Paddys,  in  gin'ral,  whose  skill  in  orations 
Quite  bothers  the  blarney  of  all  other  nations. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  207 

But,  whisht ! — there's  his  Eivirencc,  shoutin'  out  "  Larry," 

And  sorra  a  word  more  will  this  suiall  paper  cany; 

So,  here,  Judy,  ends  my  short  Lit  of  a  letther. 

Which,  faix,  I'd  have  made  a  mvich  bigger  and  betther, 

But  div'l  a  one  Post-office  hole  in  this  town 

Fit  to  swallow  a  dacent  siz'd  billy-dux  down. 

So  good  luck  to  the  childer ! — tell  Molly,  I  love  her; 

Kiss  Oonagh's  sweet  mouth,  and  kiss  Katty  all  over — ■ 

Not  forgettin'  the  mark  of  the  red  currant  whiskey 

She  got  at  the  fair  when  yourself  was  so  frisky. 

The  heavens  be  your  bed  ! — I  will  write,  when  I  can  again, 

Youi's  to  the  woild's  end, 

Larry  O'Branigan. 

To  revert  to  his  Diary— 

20th  Feby.,  1835. — At  Eogers'  met  Wordsworth,  who 
"  spoke  of  the  immense  time  it  took  him  to  write  even 
the  shortest  copy  of  verses, — sometimes  whole  weeks 
employed  in  shaping  two  or  three  lines,  before  he  can 
satisfy  himself  with  their  structure.  Attributed  much 
of  this  to  the  unmanageableness  of  the  English  as  a 
poetical  language:  contrasted  it  with  the  Italian  in  this 
respect,  and  repeated  a  stanza  of  Tasso  to  show  how 
naturally  the  words  fell  into  music  of  themselves.  .  .  . 
Thought,  however,  that,  on  the  whole,  there  were  advan- 
tages in  having  a  rugged  language  to  deal  with;  as  in 
struggling  with  w^rds  one  was  led  to  give  birth  to  and 
dwell  upon  thoughts,  while,  on  the  contrary,  an  easy  and 
mellifluous  language  was  apt  to  tempt,  by  its  facilit}^, 
into  negligence,  and  to  lead  the  poet  to  substitute  music 
for  thought." 

28th  March,  1835. — Breakfasted  in  the  morning  at 
Rogers',  to  meet  the  new  poet,  Mr.  Taylor  (Sir  Henry 
Taylor),  the  author  of  Van  Artcvelde:  our  company, 
besides,  being  Sydney  Smith  and  Southey.  Van  Arte- 
velde,   a  tall,    handsome   young    fellow.     Conversation 


208  LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE, 

chiefly  about  the  profits  booksellers  make  of  us  scribblers. 
I  remember  Peter  Pindar  saying,  one  of  the  few  times  I 
ever  met  him,  that  the  booksellers  drank  their  wine  in 
the  manner  of  the  heroes  in  the  Hall  of  Odin,  '  out  of 
authors'  skulls.' " 

13th  Aug.  1835  (in  Dublin).— "Drove  about  a  little 
in  Mrs.  Meara's  car,  accompanied  by  Hume,  and  put  in 
practice  what  I  had  long  been  contemplating — a  visit  to 
No.  12  Aungier  Street,  the  house  in  which  I  was  born. 
On  accosting  the  man  who  stood  at  the  door,  and  asking 
whether  he  was  the  owner  of  the  house,  he  looked 
rather  gruffly  and  suspiciously  at  me,  and  answered  'Yes;' 
but  the  moment  I  mentioned  who  I  was,  adding  that 
it  was  the  house  I  was  born  in,  and  that  I  wished  to  be 
permitted  to  look  through  the  rooms,  his  countenance 
brightened  up  with  the  most  cordial  feeling,  and  seizing 
me  by  the  hand  he  pulled  me  along  to  the  small  room 
behind  the  shop  (where  we  used  to  breakfast  in  old  times), 
exclaiming  to  his  wife  (who  was  sitting  there),  'Here 
Sir  Thomas  Moore,  who  was  born  in  this  house,  come  to 
ask  us  to  let  him  see  the  rooms;  and  it's  proud  I  am 
to  have  him  under  the  old  roof.'  He  then,  without 
delay,  and  entering  at  once  into  my  feelings,  led  me 
through  every  part  of  the  house,  beginning  with  the 
small  old  yard  and  its  appurtenances,  then  the  little  dark 
kitchen  where  I  used  to  have  my  bread  and  milk  in  the 
morning  before  I  went  to  school;  from  thence  to  the 
front  and  back  drawing-rooms,  the  former  looking  more 
large  and  respectable  than  I  could  have  expected,  and 
the  latter,  with  its  little  closet,  where  I  remember  such 
gay  supper-parties,  both  room  and  closet  fuller  than 
they  could  well  hold,  and  Joe  Kelly  and  Wesley  Doyle 
singing  away  together  so  sweetly.  The  bed-rooms  and 
garrets  were  next  visited,  and  the  only  material  alteration 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  209 

I  observed  iu  them  was  the  removal  of  the  wooden 
partition  by  which  a  little  corner  was  separated  off 
from  the  back  bed-room  (in  which  the  two  apprentices 
slept)  to  form  a  bed-room  for  me.  The  many  thoughts 
that  came  rushing  upon  me  in  thus  visiting,  for  the  first 
time  since  our  family  left  it,  the  house  in  which  I  passed 
the  first  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  my  life,  may  be 
more  easily  conceived  than  told;  and  I  must  say,  that  if 
a  man  had  been  got  up  specially  to  conduct  me  through 
such  a  scene,  it  could  not  have  been  done  with  more 
tact,  sympathy,  and  intelligent  feeling  than  it  was  by  this 
plain,  honest  grocer;  for,  as  I  remarked  to  Hume  as  we 
entered  the  shop,  'only  think,  a  grocer's  stilL'  When 
we  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  there  was  the  wife 
with  a  decanter  of  port,  and  glasses  on  the  table,  begging 
us  to  take  some  refreshment,  and  I  with  great  pleasure 
drank  her  and  her  good  husband's  health.  When  I  say 
that  the  shop  is  still  a  grocer's,  I  must  add,  for  the 
honour  of  old  times,  that  it  has  a  good  deal  gone  down 
in  the  world  since  then,  and  is  of  a  much  inferior  grade 
of  grocery  to  that  of  my  poor  father,  who,  by  the  way, 
was  himself  one  of  nature's  gentlemen,  having  all  the 
repose  and  good  breeding  of  manner  by  which  the  true 
gentleman  in  all  classes  is  distinguished. 

"  Went,  with  all  my  recollections  of  the  old  shop 
about  me,  to  the  grand  dinner  at  the  Park." 

On  this  visit  to  Ireland,  in  Aug.,  1835,  Moore  received 
quite  an  ovation — a  right  royal  reception  from  all  classes 
of  the  community  —  from  the  Lord  Lieutenant  down- 
wards. 

This  year  (1835),  during  Lord  Melbourne's  administra- 
tion, a  pension  of  £300  a  year  was  bestowed  upon  him 
for  his  literary  merits. 

Lord  Lansdownc,  in  communicating  the  fact  to  Moore 


210  LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

on  August  2 2d,  kindly  wrote — that,  although  regretting 
the  smallness  of  the  sum  at  their  disposal,  the  pension 
only  represented  merit,  and  was  "  due  from  any  govern- 
ment, but  much  more  from  one,  some  of  the  members  of 
Avhich  are  proud  to  think  themselves  your  friends." 

Moore  scribbled  a  few  lines  to  his  sweet  Bessy  to 
inform  her  of  this  good  news.     She  wrote  in  reply : — 

"  Sloperton,  Tuesday  Night. 
"  My  dearest  Tom, — Can  it  really  be  true  that  you  have  a 
pension  of  £300  a  year?  Mrs.,  Mr.,  two  Misses,  and  young 
Longman  were  here  to-day,  and  tell  me  it  is  I'eally  the  case, 
and  that  they  have  seen  it  in  two  paj^eis.  Should  it  turn  out 
true,  I  know  not  how  we  can  be  thankful  enough  to  those 
who  gave  it,  or  to  a  Higher  Power.  ...  If  the  story 
is  true  of  the  £300,  pray  give  dear  Ellen  twenty  pounds, 
and  insist  on  her  drinking  five  jjounds  worth  of  wine  yearly, 
to  be  paid  out  of  the  £300  a  year.  .  .  .  Three  hundred  a 
year— how  delightful !  But  I  have  my  fears  that  it  is  only  a 
castle  in  the  air.  I  am  sure  I  shall  dream  of  it;  and  so  I  will 
get  to  bed,  that  I  may  have  this  pleasure  at  least;  for  I 
expect  the  morning  will  throw  down  my  castle." 

"  Wednesday  Morning. 

"  Is  it  true  1  I  am  in  a  fever  of  hope  and  anxiety,  and  feel 
very  oddly.  No  one  to  talk  to  but  sweet  Buss,  who  says, 
'  Now  Papa  will  not  have  to  work  so  hard,  and  will  be  able 
to  go  out  a  little.'     .     .     . 

''iV.B. — If  this  good  news  be  true,  it  will  make  a  great 
diflerence  in  my  eating.  I  shall  then  indulge  in  butter  to 
potatoes.  Mind  you  do  not  tell  this  piece  of  gluttony  to 
any  one." 

The  following  discriminating  passage  on  Moore's 
politics,  we  transcribe,  from  Chambers'  Pa;persfor  the  Feojjle, 
as  it  very  nearly  hits  the  mark : — 

"  Turning  from  Moore  the  poet  to  Moore  the  politician,  there 
is  not  much  to  remark  ui)on  ;  neither  certainly  is  there  place 


LIFE    SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  211 

for  two  opiuious.  Moore  wrote  politics  at  times — pointed, 
bitter,  i-aukling  politics — but  he  was  really  at  heart  no  politician. 
There  was  no  earnestness  in  what  he  did  in  this  way,  and  it 
was  early  and  abundantly  evident  from  his  alternate  eulogies 
and  vituperation  of  democi^atic  institutions,  that  he  had  no 
tirmly-based  convictions.  His  love  for  Ireland  was  a  senti- 
ment only :  it  never  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  jjassion.  Not  one 
of  his  patriotic  songs  breathes  the  fiery  energy,  the  martyr  zeal, 
the  heroic  hate  and  love,  which  pulsate  in  the  veins  of  men 
who  ardently  sympathize  with  a  people  really  oppressed,  or 
presumed  to  be  so. 

"  But  let  us  hasten  to  say,  that  if  there  was  little  of  the  hero 
or  martyr,  there  was  nothing  of  the  renegade  or  traitor  about 
Thomas  Moore. 

"  The  pension  of  three  hundred  a  year  obtained  for  him  of 
the  crown  by  his  influential  friends  was  not  the  reward  of 
baseness  or  of  jaolitical  tergiversation.  It  was  the  prize  and 
reward  of  his  eminence  as  a  writer,  and  his  varied  social  ac- 
complishments. If  he  did  not  feel  strongly,  he  at  all  events 
felt  honestly ;  and  although  he  had  no  mission  to  evoke  the 
lightning  of  the  national  spirit,  and  hurl  its  consuming  fire  at 
the  men  who,  had  they  possessed  the  power,  would  have 
riveted  the  bondage  of  his  peoi)le,  he  could  and  did  soothe 
their  angry  paroxysms  with  lulling  words  of  praise  and  hope, 
and,  transforming  their  terribly  real,  lihysical,  and  moral 
griefs  and  ills  into  picturesque  and  sentimental  sorrows, 
awakened  a  languid  admiration,  and  a  passing  sympathy  for 
a  nation  which  could  boast  such  beautiful  music,  and  whose 
woes  were  so  agreeably,  so  charmingly  sung. 

"  Liberal  opinions,  Moore  supported  by  tongue  and  pen,  but 
then  they  were  fashionable  within  a  sufficiently -extensive 
circle  of  notabilities,  and  had  nothing  of  the  coarseness  and 
downrightness  of  vulgar  Radicalism  about  them.  The  political 
idiosyncrasy  of  Moore  is  developed  in  the  same  essential  aspect 
in  his  memoir  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  as  in  his  national 
songs.  There  is  nothing  impassioned,  nothing  which  hurries 
the  pulse  or  kindles  the  eye — but  a  graceful  regret,  a  carefully- 
guarded  apjireciation  of  the  acts  and  motives  of  that  unfor- 


212  LIFE   SKETCH   OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

tuuate  and  misguided  nobleman  rvin  throughout.  Moore  was 
what  men  call  a  fair-weather  politician — which  means,  not 
that  storms  do  not  frequently  surrovmd  them,  but  that  by  a 
prudent  forethought,  a  hajjpy  avoidance  of  prematurely  com- 
mitting themselves,  they  contrive  to  make  fair  weather  for 
themselves,  however  dark  and  tempestuous  may  be  the  time 
to  other  and  less  sagacious  men,  and  who,  when  their  sun 
does  at  last  shine,  come  out  with  extreme  effulgence  and 
brilliancy. 

"  Moore,  therefore,  as  a  politician,  was  quite  unexceptionable, 
though  not  eminent.  He  was  at  once  a  pensioned  and  un- 
purchased, and,  we  verily  believe,  nnpurchasable  partisan;  an 
honest,  sincere,  and  vei-y  mild  patriot;  a  faithful,  and  at  the 
same  time  prudent  and  circumspect  lover  of  his  country,  its 
people,  and  its  faith.  There  are  very  high-sounding  names  in 
the  list  of  political  celebrities,  of  whom  it  would  be  well  if 
such  real,  though  not  highly-flattering,  oraise  could  be  truly 
spoken." 

He  wrote  little  else,  after  this  period,  beyond  an  occa- 
sional trifle  in  verse  for  the  periodicals,  and  the  prefaces, 
with  a  few  additions,  to  a  collected  edition  of  his  poetical 
works,  issued  by  the  Longmans  (1840-42)  in  ten  volumes. 
In  these  Prefaces,  Moore  sometimes  assigns  erroneous 
dates  to  events  or  poems — for  example,  to  the  poem 
written  on  the  fete  at  Boyle  Farm.  His  memory,  alas! 
was  failing.  Such  slips,  on  his  part,  quite  explain  and 
account  for  the  pardonable  mistakes  which  are  fre- 
quently to  be  met  with  in  many  biographical  notices  of 
the  poet. 

The  remaining  years  of  his  life  may  be  partially 
bridged,  by  the  following  selection  of  interesting  passao'es 
from  his  DiARY : — 

April  7,  1837. — "  Eogers  very  agreeable.  Mentioned, 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  saying  to  some  enthusiastic 
woman  who  was  talking  in  raptures  about  '  glories  of  a 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  213 

victory,'  'I  should  so  like  to  witness  a  victory!'  &c.  &c., 
'  My  dear  Madame,  a  victory  is  the  greatest  tragedy  in 
the  world  except  one — and  that  is  a  defeat.'  " 

This  humane  feeling,  fostered  by  experience,  accords 
with  an  entry,  made  eight  years  before,  relating  to  the 
duke,  and  which  was  as  follows:— "Murray  mentioned 
that  he  heard  yesterday  Dr.  Hume  describe  circumstances 
connected  with  the  Duke  of  Wellington  after  the  battle 
of  Waterloo;  his  going  to  bed,  covered  with  dust  as  he 
was,  having  stript  himself,  and  lying  then  on  his  back, 
talking  to  Hume  of  the  friends  he  had  lost  that  day. 
There  is  such  a  one  gone,  and  such  a  one;  and  then, 
'There  is  poor  Ponsonby.  I  have  some  hopes  that  his 
body  will  be  found,  and  have  despatched  an  orderly  to 
search  for  it.'  He  then,  Hume  said,  burst  into  tears  as 
he  lay,  and  said,  '  I  have  never  lost  a  battle,  but  to  win 
one,  thus,  is  paying  hard  for  it.'" 

12th  April,  1837.  — (Of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  des- 
patches, then  recently  published,  Moore  writes) : — "  Those 
most  interesting  despatches — full  of  traits  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  modesty,  consideration  for  others,  patience  under 
misrepresentation,  and  all,  in  short  (combined  with  the 
vast  things  he  was  then  accomplishing  and  preparing), 
that  goes  to  make  the  character  of  a  great  man,  as  well 
as  of  a  great  and  fortunate  soldier." 

27th  April,  1837. — (Shiel  related  of  the  Irish  barrister 
Keller,  who  was  Moore's  godfather,  that),  "To  some 
judge,  an  old  friend  of  Keller's,  a  steady,  solemn  fellow, 
who  had  succeeded  as  much  in  his  profession  as  Keller 
had  failed,  he  said  one  day,  '  In  opposition  to  all  the  laws 
of  natural  philosophy,  you  have  risen  by  your  gravity, 
while  I  have  simk  by  my  levity.' " 

22d  Nov.,  1837. — "Read  a  story  of  Lover's  for  the 
party  in  the  evening." 


214  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

The  following  letter,  addressed  to  Thomas  Longman, 
jun.,  sho^ys  Moore's  accm^ate  estimate  of  his  own  Avork: — 

"Nov.  23,  1837. 
"  Dear  Tom, — "With  respect  to  what  you  say  about  Lalla  RooJch 
being  the  '  cream  of  cojjyrights,'  perhaps  it  may,  in  a  property 
sense;  but  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  think,  that,  in  a  race  into 
future  times  (if  anything  of  mine  could  pretend  to  such  a  run), 
those  little  ponies,  the  Melodies,  will  beat  the  mare  Lalla, 
hollow.  As  to  the  other  things  being  'unproductive,'  why,  it 
is  to  make  them  productive  that  the  edition  is  contemplated. 
What  have  Madoc,  Joan  of  Arc,  &c.,  been  producing  all  this 
time  1 — Yours,  my  dear  Tom,  very  truly,    Thomas  Moore." 

On  10th  March,  1838,  "met  Mr.  Luttrell  at  breakfast, 
at  Mr.  Iwogers'.  Talked  of  Irishmen's  unwillingness  to 
pay  ready  money,  their  notions  of  the  ready  being  always 
a  bill  at  sixty-one  days'  date.  Somebody  saying  that  one 
would  think  every  Irishman  was  born  sixty-one  days  too 
late,  from  their  being  always  that  space  of  time  behind 
the  rest  of  the  world;  and  Luttrell  described  the  process 
of  purchasing  a  horse  between  one  Irish  gentleman  and 
another.  Price  sixty  pounds,  for  which  you  have  no 
occasion  to  pay  down  cash — only  commit  your  thoughts  to 
fapicr.'' " 

19th  May,  1838.— "Breakfasted  with  Eogers.  Story 
of  the  lady  who  "wrote  to  Talleyrand  informing  him,  in 
high-flovni  terms  of  grief,  of  the  death  of  her  husband, 
and  expecting  an  eloquent  letter  of  condolence  in  return; 
his  answer  only,  '  H6las,  Madame,  votre  affectione,  &c., 
Talleyrand.'  In  less  than  a  year  another  letter  from  the 
same  lady  informed  him  of  her  having  married  again;  to 
which  he  returned  an  answer  in  the  same  laconic  style : — 
'Oh,  oh,  Madame!     Votre  affection^,  &c.,  Talleyrand.'" 

21  st  Nov.,  1838.—"  Dined  at  Bcntley's.  The  company 
all  tiic  very  hunt  ton  of  the  literature  of  the  day — Jordan, 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  215 

Ainswortli,  Lover,  Luttrell,  Dickens,  Barham,  Moran,  and 
Campbell." 

16th  June,  1839. — "Eogers,  alluding  to  Moore's  numer- 
ous engagements,  said  that,  whenever  he  is  asked  'Where 
Mr.  Moore  is?'  he  always  answers,  'He  is  at  this  moment 
in  three  different  })laces."' 

19th  Feby.,  1840. — ^When  arranging  to  place  his  son 
Tom  at  the  university,  he  was  told  by  one  of  the  autho- 
rities that  the  exhibition  coming  to  him  from  the  Charter 
House  would  be,  on  an  average,  about  £100  a  year,  and 
it  was  coolly  added,  "To  that  you  would  have  to  give  him, 
from  yourself,  only  =£150  a  year."  "  That,"  remarks  Moore, 
"  is  the  half  of  the  only  income  (my  pension)  that  ever  I 
possess  without  working  hard  for  it;  ay,  and  sharing  my 
earnings  all  the  time  with  almost  everybody  related  to  me. 
If  I  had  thought  but  of  '  living  like  a  gentleman '  (as  those 
colonels  and  tutors  style  it),  Mdiat  would  have  become  of 
my  dear  father  and  mother,  of  my  sweet  sister  Nell,  of 
my  admirable  Bessy's  mother'?" 

Aug.  2,  1840  (in  London).  .  .  .  "  Li  passing  through 
Brompton,  showed  them  the  house  which  Bessy  and  I 
occupied  on  our  marriage,  and  where,  at  a  breakfast  we 
gave  a  few  months  after,  I  introduced  her  to  Lady 
Donegall,  Miss  Godfrey,  Kogers,  Corry,  and  one  or  two 
other  very  old  friends." 

From  entries,  July  1-6,  1841,  we  find  his  son  Tom 
drawing  bills  on  him,  one  for  £112,  and  within  a  week 
another  for  £100.  He  accepted  them,  but  did  not  know 
how  they  were  to  be  met.  Moore's  memory,  from  this  time 
(1842),  exhibits  more  frequent  signs  of  decay,  and  his 
diary  is  painfully  marked  with  the  difficulties  and  dis- 
tress which  Averc  l)rought  upon  him  hy  the  tlioughtlessness 
of  one  son,  and  the  premature  decay  of  the  other. 

12th  Nov.,  1841. — "  A  note  from  Sydney  Smith  asking 


216  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

me  to  breakfast  with  him  to-morrow :  '  Dear  Moore, — I 
have  a  breakfast  of  philosophers  to-morrow  at  ten  punc- 
tually. Muffins  and  metaphysics;  crumpets  and  contradic- 
tion. Will  you  come'?'  Wrote  him  an  excuse,  telling 
him  of  my  engagement  at  the  State  Paper  Office,  and 
saying  that,  though  his  breakfast  would  be  very  agreeable, 
it  would  '  take  a  large  slice  of  a  reign  out  of  me.' " 

19th  Nov.,  1841  (An  ominous  entry). — "After  return- 
ing from  the  State  Paper  Office  yesterday  I  was  seized 
with  a  giddiness,  during  which  the  room  seemed  to  turn 
round  with  me.  The  cause  of  this,  I  have  no  doubt,  is 
my  having  kept  my  head  down  over  those  papers  for  so 
many  successive  days,  and  so  many  hours  each  day.  This 
morning,  however,  I  held  the  paper  in  my  hand  and  sat 
upright." 

Troubles  gathered  around  him;  and  tidings  reached 
him  that,  "  In  the  indulgence  of  careless  habits,  young 
Thomas  Moore  got  into  debt;  and  that  in  a  thoughtless 
moment  he  had  resolved  to  sell  his  commission." 

11th  and  12th  Jany.,  1842.— "To  say  nothing  of  the 
anxiety  and  grief  caused  by  it,  how  on  earth  am  I  to 
meet  the  additional  expenses  which  the  return  of  both 
boys  will  now  entail,  while  still  I  am  in  debt,  too,  for 
most  of  the  money  which  their  first  outfit,  passage,  &c., 
required'?  I  am  still  willing,  and,  thank  God,  able  to 
work;  but  the  power  comes  slower,  and  the  effort  is 
therefore  more  wearing." 

On  18th  March,  1842,  we  have  another  melancholy 
symptomatic  entry:  "Dined  at  Mrs.  CunlifFe's.  Company 
large  enough,  but  (strange  to  say)  quite  a  blank  in  my 
memory;  whether  through  their  fault  or  mine,  I  know 
not.  I  have  heard  of  a  '  tabula  rasa,'  but  a  whole  dinner 
table  thus  suddenly  erased  from  one's  memory  is  a  new 
phenomenon." 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  217 

March  12, 1842. — (On  Hume  kindly  accommodating  him 
and  enabling  him  to  provide  for  a  bill  drawn  on  him  by 
his  son  Eussell,  Moore  makes  the  following  entry) :  "  Was 
delighted  to  have  to  tell  my  dear  Bessy  that  all  had  been 
arranged  so  comfortably.  Couldn't  help  ruminating  a 
little  on  the  essential  difference  there  is  between  useful 
and  merely  ornamental  friends.  But  one  mustn't  grum- 
ble; both  are  good  in  their  different  ways." 

13th  March,  1842.— "Breakfasted  with  Eogers.  Com- 
pany Everett  (the  American  minister),  Lord  Mahon, 
Milnes,  Luttrell,  &c.  (fee.  Talking  of  Lady  Holland's 
crowded  dinners,  and  her  bidding  people  constantly  '  to 
make  room,'  Luttrell  said,  '  It  must  certainly  be  made,  for 
it  does  not  exist.'  ,  ,  .  Rogers'  theory  is  that  the 
close  packing  of  Lady  Holland's  dinners  is  one  of  the 
secrets  of  their  conversableness  and  agreeableness,  and 
perhaps  he  is  right." 

The  following  announcement  of  an  honour  conferred 
upon  Moore  by  the  King  of  Prussia  appeared  in  the 
Frussian  State  Gazette: — "Berlin,  June  1,  1842.  His 
Majesty  has  been  pleased  to  found  a  special  class  of  the 
order  ^pour  le  nitrite,'  to  be  conferred  on  persons  who 
have  distinguished  themselves  in  the  sciences  and  arts. 
The  numbers  of  the  members  of  the  German  nation  is 
fixed  at  thirty.  To  enhance  the  splendour  of  the  order 
it  will  also  be  conferred  on  eminent  foreigners,  the  num- 
ber of  whom  is  not  fixed,  but  is  never  to  exceed  that  of  the 
German  members.  Among  the  foreign  members  in  the 
class  of  science  (including,  it  seems,  Belles  Lettres)  are 
Michael  Faraday,  Sir  John  Herschel,  members  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  London,  and  Mr.  Thomas  Moore." 

An  odd  anecdote  illustrative  of  Moore's  increasing  and 
widely-spread  fame  may  here  be  given.  He  was  surprised 
one  day  at  receiving  from  Sweden  an  offer  to  be  elected 


218  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOOUE. 

a  knight  of  tlio  ancient  Order  of  St.  Joachim.  This  dis- 
tinction, it  was  announced  in  the  missive,  which  purported 
to  come  from  the  chancellor  of  the  order,  was  tendered  as 
a  mark  of  the  admiration  entertained  by  the  honourable 
fraternity  for  his  very  charming  poetry.  Moore  was 
puzzled — mystified.  He  had  never  before  heard  of  the 
Order  of  St.  Joachim,  and  vehemently  suspected  some 
kind  friend  of  seeking  to  p.lay  him  a  malicious  trick. 
St.  Joachim!  Might  it  not  tuni  out  to  be  St.  Joke'ml 
He,  however,  stealthily  inquired  amongst  persons  versed 
in  knightly  orders,  and  was  informed  that  there  really 
was  a  Swedish  knighthood  of  the  name  mentioned,  and 
that  several  presentable  persons  had  belonged  to  it. 
Still,  after  due  deliberation,  he  resolved  to  decline  the 
generously  proffered  honour.  It  was  too  hazardous.  Sir 
Joke'm  Moore !  He  was  a  man  to  face  the  battery  of  a 
three-decker  cheerfully  rather  than  risk  the  possibility  of 
such  a  soljriquet  as  that ! 

On  June  5,  1843,  he  could  not  remember  where  he 
had  promised  to  dine.  In  the  exigence,  he  recollected 
that  Rogers  told  him  he  was  to  dine  at  home  and  alone, 
so  sauntered  down  to  St.  James  Place,  about  a  quarter 
past  seven.  Just  as  he  was  passing  Burdett's,  Mrs. 
Otway  Cave's  carriage  stopped  at  the  door,  and,  as  he 
recognized  and  handed  her  out,  she  asked,  "  Where  are 
you  going f  "  To  dine  with  Eogers,"  said  Moore,  "if  he 
is  at  home."  "  You  had  better  far  stop  hei'e,"  she  replied, 
"for  I  see  dinner  is  on  the  table."  So  Moore  turned  in 
with  her  and  found  himself  most  heartily  welcomed, 
there  being  but  one  other  guest,  an  old  acquaintance  of 
his  own.  From  the  Burdetts  he  went  by  appointment 
to  join  the  Russells;  and,  after  that,  to  the  Polish  Fancy 
Ball — not  reaching  home  till  between  two  and  three  in 
the  mornins; !    Under  this  date  we  also  find  the  following 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  219 

entry  in  his  Diary.  "  Some  one  mentioned  to-day  that 
Charles  Napier,^  in  writing  to  a  friend  the  night  before 
his  late  victory  at  Meanee,  said,  'If  I  survive  I  shall 
soon  be  with  those  I  love;  if  I  fall,  I  shall  be  with  those 
I  have  loved.'  " 

Sydney  Smith  often  laughed  at  Moore  for  his  "oc- 
casional absences,"  and  the  following  letter  alludes  to 
them : — 

"  August  7,  1843. 
"  Dear  Moore, — The  following  articles  have  been  found  in 
your  room  and  forwarded  by  the  Great  Western.  A  right- 
hand  glove,  an  odd  stocking,  a  sheet  of  music  paper,  a  missal, 
several  letters, — apparently  from  ladies, — an  Elegy  on  Phelim 
O'Neil.  There  is  also  a  bottle  of  eau  de  Cologne,  What  a 
careless  mortal  you  are  ! — God  bless  you." 

In  reply,  Moore  scribbled  off  the  follomng  droll 
lines : — 

"  Eev.  Sir, — Having  duly  received  by  the  post 
Your  list  of  the  articles  missing  and  lost 
By  a  certain  small  poet,  well  known  on  the  road, 
Who  has  lately  set  up  at  your  flowery  abode, 
We  have  balanced  what  Hume  calls  '  the  tottle  o'  the  whole,' 
(Making  all  due  allowance  for  what  the  bard  stole). 
And,  hoping  th'  inclosed  will  be  found  quite  correct, 
Have  the  honour.  Rev.  Sir,  to  be — 

Yours  with  respect. 
Left  behind,  a  kid  glove  that  once  made  a  pair. 
An  odd  stocking,  whose  fellow  is — heaven  knows  where ; 

Such  was  all  that,  on  diligent  search  we  can  find 
Which  the  bard,  so  mis-called,  in  his  flight  left  behind ; 
While,  thief  as  he  is,  he  took  slyly  away 
Rich  treasures  to  last  him  for  many  a  day. 

'  The  late  General  Sir  Charles  Napier. 
15 


220  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Recollections  unnumbered  of  sunny  Conibe-Florey; 

Its  cradle  of  hills,  where  it  slumbers  in  glory ; 

Its  Sydney  himself,  and  the  countless  bright  things 

Which  his  tongue  or  his  pen  from  the  deep-shining  springs 

Of  wisdom  and  wit  ever  flowingly  brings. 

Such  being,  on  both  sides,  the  '  tottle '  amount, 

We  shall  leave  to  your  Eev'rence  to  settle  th'  account." 

30th  and  31st  Dec.  —  On  the  last  day  of  the  year 
(1843),  he  wrote: — "A  strange  life  mine;  but  the  best 
as  well  as  the  pleasantest  part  of  it  lies  at  home.  I 
told  my  dear  Bessy  this  morning — that  while  I  stood  at 
iny  study  window  looking  out  at  her,  as  she  crossed  the 
field,  I  sent  a  blessing  after  her.  '  Thank  you,  bird,'  she 
replied,  'that's  better  than  money;'  and  so  it  is.  'Bird' 
is  a  pet  name  she  gave  me  in  our  younger  days,  and  was 
suggested  by  Hamlet's  Avords,  'Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy!  come, 
bird,  come;'  being  the  call,  it  seems,  which  falconers  use 
to  their  hawk  in  the  air,  when  they  would  have  him  come 
down  to  them." 

8th  to  10th  Feb.,  1844.— "Have  been  laid  up,  all  this 
time,  more  with  the  consequences  of  influenza  than  that 
disease  itself,  the  violent  coughing  having  strained  me  so 
much  that  I  found  it  necessary  to  send  for  Norman  to 
Bath;  at  least,  my  dear  Bessy,  in  her  anxiety,  thought  it 
necessary,  though  at  an  expense  of  £10,  which  was  the 
amount  of  his  fee.  Such  is  her  noble  nature;  sparing 
of  all  unnecessary  expenditure,  but  on  great  occasions, 
whether  of  use,  honest  pride,  or  generosity,  ready  to  the 
last  farthing." 

Sept.  10,  1844. — (At  Hobhouse's,  he  found  the  following 
scrap,  in  an  old  book,  and  thought  it  worth  preserving) : — - 
"  There  was  a  Spanish  doctor  who  had  a  fancy  that 
Spanish,  Italian,  and  French  were  spoken  in  Paradise: 
that  God  Almighty  commanded  in  Spanish,  the  Tempter 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  221 

persuaded  in  Italian,  and  Adam  begged  pardon  in 
French." 

In  July,  1845,  lie  notes  a  good  hit,  made  in  the  House  of 
Commons : — "  One  night,  a  blustering  orator  having  trium- 
phantly, as  he  thought,  exclaimed,  'I  am  the  guardian  of 
my  own  honour,'  Sir  Boyle  Roche  quietly  settled  the 
orator,  by  saying,  '  I  wish  the  honourable  gentleman  joy 
on  his  sinecure  appointment.'" 

Here  is  another  House  of  Commons  scene,  as  given  by 
Moore  :— 

^^ Government  side. — 'Mr.  Speaker,  have  we  laws,  or 
have  we  not  laws?  If  we  have  laws,  to  what  purpose 
were  those  laws  made,  unless  they  are  obeyed  f 

^^ Opposition  side. — 'Mr.  Speaker,  did  that  gentleman 
speak  to  the  purpose  or  not  to  the  purpose,  and  if  he  did 
not  speak  to  the  purpose,  to  what  purpose  did  he  speak  % ' " 

July,  1845." — -"One  night  when  John  Kemble  was  per- 
forming, at  some  country  theatre,  one  of  his  most  favour- 
ite parts,  he  was  much  interrupted,  from  time  to  time,  by 
the  squalling  of  a  young  child  in  one  of  the  galleries. 
At  length,  angered  by  this  rival  performance,  Kemble 
walked  with  solemn  step  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  and, 
addressing  the  audience  in  his  most  tragic  tones,  said, 
'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  unless  the  play  is  stopped,  the 
child  cannot  possibly  go  on.'  The  effect  on  the  audience 
of  this  earnest  interference  in  favour  of  the  child  may  be 
easily  conceived." 

"July,  1845  (Moore  writes): — "I  don't  know  where  I 
found  the  following,  but  there  is  a  homely  sort  of  philo- 
sophy in  it  that  rather  takes  my  fancy : 

"  '  This  world's  a  good  world  to  live  in, 
To  lend,  and  to  spend,  and  to  give  in ; 
But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  ask  for  one's  own, 
'Tis  the  very  worst  world  that  ever  was  known.' " 


222  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Thus,  Moore,  we  have  seen,  began  his  literary  career 
when  a  youth  of  twenty-one,  and  was  received  into  the 
first  London  society.  His  fame  increased  till  1823,  and 
was  then  at  its  height,  when  he  published  The  Loves 
of  the  Angels.  For  the  next  thirty  years,  "he  wrote 
occasionally;  but,  adding  nothing  to  his  fame,  he  lived 
upon  the  glory  of  his  youth," 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

LATTER  YEARS  AND  DEATH. 

Moore's  latter  years  were  clouded  by  domestic  grief, 
his  children  having  all  died  before  him.  In  1846  the 
poet  made  this  sad  entry  in  his  diary,  "  The  last  of  our 
five  children  is  gone,  and  we  are  left  desolate  and  alone; 
not  a  single  relative  have  I  now  left  in  the  world."  His 
father  had  died  in  J 825,  his  mother  in  1832,  and  his  sis- 
ter Nell  in  184G;  and  his  children  had  dropped  off  one 
after  another, — three  of  them  in  youth,  and  two  grown 
up  to  manhood.  Here,  we  may,  shortly,  enumerate 
them : — ■ 

Moore's  eldest  daughter,  Ann  Jane  Barbara,  died  in 
1817,  at  the  age  of  five.  His  second  daughter,  Anastatia 
Mary,  died  in  1829,  at  the  age  of  nearly  seventeen.  A 
third  daughter,  Ovilia  Byron,  lived  only  a  few  months. 
John  Russell  Moore,  the  second  son,  died  in  1842  at  the 
age  of  nineteen.  He  was  a  cadet  in  the  East  India 
Company's  service. 

The  last  surviving  of  Moore's  children  was  his  eldest 
son,  Thomas  Lansdowne  Parr  Moore.  He  died,  as  Ave 
have  seen,  in  1846,  in  his  eight-and-twentieth  year.     He 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE.  223 

held  a  commission  in  India,  and  breaking  down  there, 
through  the  climate  and  excesses,  he  entered  the  French 
service  in  Algiers— got  worse,  and  died  of  consumption 
in  the  hospital  of  Mostorganem.  The  wildness  of  this 
son,  and  his  melancholy  end,  told  fearfully  on  the  mind 
and  strength  of  the  poet. 

On  one  occasion,  long  before  and  already  alluded  to, 
when  Moore  was  visiting  his  mother  in  Dublin,  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  and  children,  Samuel  Lover,  who  was 
always  a  great  favourite  with  the  delightful,  cheery,  old 
grandmother,  was  invited  to  her  house  on  the  very  day 
that  the  interesting  party  arrived.  He  was  struck  by 
the  beauty  of  the  boy  Russell,  and  painted  a  charming 
miniature  portrait  of  him  as  a  gift  to  the  child's  mother. 
In  it,  he  caught,  with  great  felicity,  the  bright  expression 
and  great  resemblance  that  the  boy  bore  to  his  father. 
In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Hall,  Lover  says : — 

"  You  ask  me  to  give  you  some  description  of  Russell 
Moore.  You  know  how  hard,  or,  rather,  how  impossible 
it  is  for  words  to  give  any  notion  of  lineaments. 

"All  children's  faces  are,  to  a  certain  extent,  round; 
but  Russell's  might  have  been  remarked  for  roundness, 
even  among  children — nose,  though  retroussd,  nicely  de- 
fined about  the  nostril,  a  pretty  mouth,  well  marked  eye- 
brows, and  dark  brown  eyes  of  remarkable  beauty,  with 
a  certain  expression  of  archness  that  reminded  one  of  his 
father — you  remember  what  brilliant  and  vivacious  eyes 
his  were, — in  short,  Russell  Moore's  face  would  have 
been  a  good  model  for  a  painter  who  wanted  a  sugges- 
tion for  a  little  Cupid." 

This  picture  relates  to  spring  days.  Now,  with 
Moore,  it  was  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  Of  this  period 
Lord  John  Russell  says: — "The  death  of  his  only  re- 
maining  child,   and   his  last  and  most  beloved   sister, 


224  LIFE   SKETCH    OF    THOMAS    MOORE. 

deeply  affected  the  health,  crushed  the  spirits,  and  im- 
paired the  mind  of  Moore.  An  illness  of  an  alarming 
nature  shook  his  frame,  and  for  a  long  time  made  him 
incapable  of  any  exertion.  When  he  recovered  he  was 
a  different  man.  His  memory  was  perpetually  at  fault, 
and  nothing  seemed  to  rest  on  his  mind.  He  made 
engagements  to  dinners  and  parties,  but  usually  forgot 
half  of  them.  When  he  did  appear,  his  gay  flow  of 
spirits,  happy  application  of  humorous  stories,  and  con- 
stant and  congenial  ease  were  all  wanting.  The  brilliant 
hues  of  his  varied  conversation  had  failed,  and  the  strong 
powers  of  his  intellect  had  manifestly  sunk.  There  was 
something  peculiarly  sad  in  the  change.  It  is  not  un- 
usual to  observe  the  faculties  grow  weaker  with  age;  and, 
in  the  retirement  of  a  man's  own  home,  there  may  be  'no 
unpleasing  melancholy'  in  the  task  of  watching  such  a 
decline.  But  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  gay  and  the  con- 
vivial, the  wit  appeared  without  his  gaiety,  and  the  guest 
without  his  conviviality, — when  the  fine  fancy  ajipeared 
not  so  much  sobered  as  saddened, — it  was  a  cheerless 
sight. 

"Happily  for  Moore  and  his  partner  they  had  a  certain 
income,  derived  from  the  bounty  of  the  sovereign,  which 
flowed  on  in  a  stream,  not  exuberant  indeed,  but  per- 
petual. On  this  income,  Mrs.  Moore  regulated  her  ex- 
penses, and  regulated  them  so  as  to  incur  no  debts." 

Worn  down  by  mental  overwork,  by  the  claims  of 
societj^,  and  by  grief  over  "faded  flowers," 

'  When  friendships  decay, 
And,  from  Love's  shining  circle,  tlie  gems  drop  away," 

he  was  now  fast  breaking  up.  His  memory  failed  rapidly; 
he  stooped  and  looked  old;  and,  in  1848 — as  in  the  cases 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOOUE.  225 

of  Swift,  Scott,  and  Southey — mental  imbecility  gradually 
set  in,  caused  by  softening  of  the  brain. 

In  1850,  Mrs.  Moore  received  a  pension  of  £100  a  year, 
in  consideration  of  her  husband's  literary  services;  and 
no  wife  ever  deserved  recognition  more  than  slie  for  her 
oivn  sweet  sake.  She  was  in  every  respect  a  true  and 
model  wife.  Moore's  loss  of  memory  was  in  his  case, 
perhaps,  a  blessing,  "  bestowing  a  calm,"  as  William 
Howitt  remarks,  "  on  his  closing  period,  which  otherwise 
could  not  have  existed."  Of  this  period,  S.  C.  Hall  writes: 
— "  Two  years  and  two  months  Moore  may  be  said  to 
have  lain  on  his  death-bed — dying  all  that  weary  time. 
His  mind  became  obliterated;  restorations  to  reason 
being  only  occasional  and  very  partial.  His  disease  was 
softening  of  the  brain.  Sometimes  he  knew  and  recog- 
nized his  '  Bessy.'  During  the  whole  of  that  sad  period,  she 
was  never  for  an  hour  out  of  his  room.  She  told  us  that, 
when  intelligence  was  at  all  active,  he  would  ask  her  to 
read  the  Bible,  but  his  great  delight  was  to  hear  her 
sing;  that  his  frequent  desire  was  for  a  hymn,  'Come  to 
Jesus,'  in  the  refrain  of  which  he  always  joined,  and 
which  he  often  asked  her  to  sing  for  him  a  second  time. 
Almost  his  last  words — and  they  were  frequently  re- 
lieated — were,  'Lean  upon  God,  Bessy;  lean  ujjon  God!'" 

Of  Mrs.  Moore,  Mrs.  Hall  writes: — "I  never  knew 
anyone  with  such  active  and  genial  afl'ections  as  Moore, 
except  his  wife.  Her  nature  was  quite  as  sympathetic 
as  that  of  her  husband;  and  Avliile  her  reverence  for  that 
husband  amounted  to  devotion,  she  watched  over  him  as 
a  mother  watches  over  a  tender  and  beloved  child.  It 
was  the  most  Avonderful  blending  of  admiration,  duty, 
and  lovingness  I  ever  witnessed  or  could  fancy.  At 
times,  even  then,  though,  as  her  husband  tenderly  said, 
sire  had  wept  her  eyes  away,  crying  for  her  children,  she 


226  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

looked  radiantly  beautiful.  .  .  .  Imagination,  thought, 
memory  were  worn  out.  At  last — at  last — she  knew  it; 
the  greatest  trial  of  her  sorely  tried  life  had  come.  Her 
idol  whom  she  worshipjjed  with  perfect  enthusiasm — he 
of  whose  genius  she  was  so  proud,  to  become  what  he 
was — still  tender  and  gentle,  but  mindless  as  an  infant. 
She  could  not  bear  anyone  to  see  him  in  that  state;  day 
and  night,  night  and  day,  for  months  and  months,  she 
alone  ministered  to  him;  at  his  desire,  frequently  singing 
for  him  scraps  of  hymns.  We  can  easily  imagine  how 
the  perpetual  watching  and  waiting  preyed  on  a  constitu- 
tion already  enfeebled  by  sorrows,  which  it  had  been  her 
chief  care  to  prevent  his  feeling  in  their  intensity.  She 
was  ever  at  her  post.  The  sick-room  was  the  heart  of 
the  house;  the  life-blood  beat  there,  more  and  more 
feebly,  but  still  it  beat;  and  then  there  was  no  longer 
need  for  watching :  the  end  came — the  end  here ! " 

"  His  last  days,"  says  Lord  John  Eussell,  "  were  peace- 
ful and  happy;  his  domestic  sorrows,  his  literary  triumphs, 
seem  to  have  faded  away  alike  into  a  calm  repose.  He 
retained  to  his  last  moments  a  pious  submission  to  God, 
and  a  grateful  sense  of  the  kindness  of  her  whose  tender 
office  it  was  to  watch  over  his  decline."  His  frame  grew 
weaker  and  weaker,  and  he  died  at  Sloperton  Cottage, 
his  home  for  more  than  thirty  years,  on  the  26th  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1852,  aged  seventy-two  years  and  nine  months, 
and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Bromham,  Bedford- 
shire, within  view  of  his  own  house,  and  by  the  side  of 
two  of  his  children; — the  one,  his  daughter  Anastasia 
Mary,  the  other,  his  son  John  Eussell  Moore,  the  god-son 
of  Lord  John  Russell." 

Only  two  persons  from  a  distance,  of  all  the  many 
with  whom  be  had  mingled  in  the  yes^rs  of  his  youth  and 
fame,  stood  by  his  grave  when  he  was  laid  to  rest — one 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS    MOORE.  227 

of  them  a  clergyman  and  the  other  one  of  the  Messrs. 
Longmans,  his  publishers,  who  had  been,  in  truth,  his  life- 
long and  substantial  friends. 

Of  Thomas  Moore,  Samuel  Carter  Hall  thus  writes : — 
"  Let  it  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb,  that  ever,  amid  priva- 
tions and  temptations,  the  allurements  of  grandeur  and 
the  suggestions  of  poverty,  he  preserved  his  self-respect; 
bequeathing  no  property,  but  leaving  no  debts;  having 
had  no  testimonial  of  acknowledgment  or  reward;  seek- 
ing none,  nay  avoiding  any;  making  many  his  debtors  for 
intense  delight,  and  acknowledging  himself  paid  by  '  the 
poet's  meed,  the  tribute  of  a  smile;'  never  truckling  to 
power;  labouring  ardently  and  honestly  for  his  political 
faith,  but  never  lending  to  party  that  which  was  meant 
for  mankind;  proud,  and  rightly  proud,  of  his  self-obtained 
position;  but  neither  scorning  nor  slighting  the  humble 
race  from  which  he  sprung." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MOORE's   memoirs — OPINIONS   AS   TO    HIS   CHARACTER — MRS. 
MOORE. 

Lord  John  Russell  generously  negotiated,  for  the  pub- 
lication of  Moore's  Memoirs,  Journal  and  Correspondence, 
with  the  Longmans,  who  brought  them  out  in  eight 
volumes  (1852-56)  and  under  Lord  John's  own  editorial 
supervision,  in  accordance  with  the  desire  of  the  poet. 

The  editing  was  executed  without  sufficient  care. 
The  arrangement  of  the  matter  was  not  satisfactory,  and 
much  of  it  miglit,  according  to  those  well  able  to  judge, 
have  been  omitted  with  advantage.     Although  set  with 


• 

228  LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS    MOORE. 

sparkling  gems,  it  was  too  long  spun  out,  and  was,  on 
the  whole,  heavy  reading;  nor  did  it  convey  so  pleasant 
an  impression  of  the  poet  as  "  Mr.  Burke's  brighter  and 
briefer  biography." 

With  the  ,£3000  obtained  for  the  work,  an  annuity 
was  purchased  for  Mrs.  Moore,  equal  to  the  whole  income 
which  she  and  her  husband  had  enjoyed  during  the  latter 
years  of  his  life.  The  journal  embi-aces  the  period  be- 
tween 1818  and  1847.  From  it  we  have  given  a  sprink- 
ling of  quotations,  chiefly  anecdotes,  racy  drolleries,  or 
witty  sayings.  Mrs.  Moore  survived  her  husband  until 
1865,  and  generously  presented  the  poet's  valuable  library 
to  the  Eoyal  Irish  Academy,  She  died  at  Sloperton 
Cottage,  on  the  4th  of  September,  aged  sixty-eight. 

It  must  be  admitted,  that  too  much  of  Moore's  time 
was  frittered  away  amongst  the  mob  of  those  who  were 
merely  titled  people.  We  do  not,  of  course,  refer  to  the 
Russells,  Lansdownes,  and  Hollands,  where,  on  equal 
terms  with  these  able  men,  he  also  met  Byron,  Jeffrey, 
Sydney  Smith,  Campbell,  Rogers,  Brougham,  and  the  like. 

Moore's  life  may  be  summed  up  as  "an  untiring  pur- 
suit of  poetiy,  prose,  and  fashionable  society."  Byron 
said,  "Tommy  dearly  loved  a  lord;"  and  his  journals 
continually  evince  his  vanity  in  this  respect,  although  it 
was,  essentially,  of  a  very  harmless  and  kindly  sort.  Be- 
sides, most  certainly,  in  Moore's  case,  it  was  the  aristo- 
cracy that  courted  him;  while  he  ever  maintained  his 
thorough  independence  both  of  spirit  and  action,  and 
chiefly  valued  his  titled  friends  for  their  own  intrinsic, 
personal  worth. 

William  Howitt,  who  knew  him,  also  wrote,  "  It  is  as 
useless  to  wish  Moore  anything  but  what  he  was,  as  to 
wish  a  butterfly  a  bee,  or  that  a  moth  should  not  fly  into 
a  candle.     It  was  his  nature;  and  the  pleasure  of  being 


LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  229 

caressed,  flattered,  and  admired  by  titled  people  must  be 
purchased  at  any  cost.  Neither  poverty  nor  sorrow  could 
restrain  him  from  this  dear  enjoyment.  We  find  him  at 
one  moment  overwhelmed  by  some  death  or  distress 
amongst  his  nearest  relatives  or  in  the  very  bosom  of  his 
family.  News  arrives  that  a  son  is  ill  in  a  far-off  land, 
or  a  daughter  is  dead  at  home.  In  the  very  next  entry 
in  his  diary  he  has  rushed  away  with  his  grief  into  some 
fashionable  concert,  where  he  sings  and  breaks  down  in 
tears.  .  .  .  He  goes  into  the  charmed,  glittering  ring 
to  forget  his  trouble,  and  leaves  poor,  desolate  Mrs. 
Moore  solitarily  at  home  to  remember  it. 

"At  another  time  you  find  him  invited  to  dine  with 
some  great  people,  but  he  has  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket; 
Bessy,  however,  has  scraped  together  a  pound  or  two  out 
of  the  housekeeping  cash,  and  lets  him  have  it,  and  he  is 
off. 

"And  yet  this  strange  little  fairy  was  a  most  affection- 
ate husband,  son,  and  brother.  We  find  him  and  his 
wife  at  one  time  staying  at  Lord  Moira's  for  a  week  be- 
yond the  time  that  they  should  have  left,  because  they 
had  not  money  enough  to  give  to  the  servants.  Thus, 
night  after  night,  season  after  season,  he  is  the  flattered 
and  laughing  centre  of  the  most  brilliant  circles  of  lords 
and  ladies,  while  he  and  his  wife,  in  the  daytime,  are  at 
their  wits'  end  to  find  the  means  of  meeting  the  demands 
of  their  humble  manage.  He  is  joking  and  carolling  like 
a  lark,  while  his  thoughts  are,  at  every  pause,  running  on 
how  that  confounded  bill  is  to  be  taken  up.  All  the 
time,  his  wife  is  sitting  solitarily  at  home  pondering  on 
the  same  thing,  and  cannot  call  on  her  friends  because  it 
would  necessitate  the  hire  of  a  coach." 

In  extenuation,  it  has  been  said,  that  Moore  wished  to 
keep  himself  before  the  people  who  could  purchase  his 


230  LIFE    SKETCH    OF    THOMAS   MOORE. 

expensive  quarto  volumes,  and  that  Mrs.  Moore  acquiesced 
in  what  was  thus  for  their  mutual  benefit. 

However,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Moore  was  a 
spendthrift  to  the  end  of  his  days.  His  writings  brought 
him  £30,000,  and  he  had  nothing  to  leave  to  his  wife — 
his  sole  survivor — but  his  Diary  in  MS. 

Owing  chiefly,  perhaps,  to  her  good  sense,  they  always 
lived  in  houses  of  low  rents ;  and,  of  these,  only  two  were 
residences  of  long  duration — the  one,  Mayfield  Cottage, 
near  the  river  Dove,  in  Derbyshire;  and  the  other, 
Sloperton  Cottage,  in  Wiltshire. 

But  we  find  him  borrowing  a  large  house  of  Lord 
Lansdowne,  at  Richmond,  one  summer;  borrowing  his 
friend's  carriages,  and  giving  great  dinners  and  fetes 
champetres;  so  that  it  is  easy  to  see  how  the  money  went. 

Amidst  all  this,  he  was  attached  to  his  family,  a  faith- 
ful, kind,  and  generous  friend;  he  habitually  wrote  to  his 
mother  twice  a  week;  and  when  he  got  £3000  for  Lalla 
Eookh,  he  left  £2000  in  the  hands  of  his  publishers, 
directing  the  interest  (£100  a  year)  to  be  handed  to  his 
parents,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached,  and  this  sum 
was  paid  them  while  they  lived,  even  when  he  himself 
was  often  sorely  pressed  for  money.  Nor  did  he  by  his 
extravagance  ever  involve  them  in  any  expense. 

"Moore,"  says  Lord  John  Russell,  very  justly,  "was 
imbued  throughout  his  life  with  an  attachment  to  the 
principles  of  liberty;  and  he  naturally  adopted  the  prin- 
ciples of  that  party  which  contended  for  religious  liberty 
and  political  reform.  His  taste  for  educated  and  refined 
society  led  him  into  the  company  of  the  aristocratic  classes 
in  London.  Among  these,  he  was  understood,  appreciated, 
and  adraired.  The  more  eminent  of  all  political  parties 
were  charmed  by  his  poetry,  struck  with  his  wit,  and 
attached  by  the  playful  negligence  of  his  conversation. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  231 

A  man  who  was  courted  and  esteemed  by  Lord  Lans- 
downe,  Mr.  Canning,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Mr.  Rogers,  the 
Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Lord  Byron, 
must  have  had  social  as  well  as  literary  merits  of  no 
common  order.     .     . 

"  Moore's  domestic  life  gave  scope  to  the  best  parts  of 
his  character.  His  beautiful  wife,  faultless  in  conduct, 
a  fond  mother,  a  lively  companion,  devoted  in  her  at- 
tachment, always  ready — perhaps  too  ready,  to  sacrifice 
her  own  domestic  enjoyments  that  he  might  be  admired 
and  known,  was  a  treasure  of  inestimable  value  to  his 
happiness.  I  have  said  that  perhaps  she  was  too  ready 
to  sacrifice  herself,  because  it  would  have  been  better  for 
Mr.  Moore  if  he  had  not  yielded  so  much  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  society,  however  dazzling  and  however  tempting. 
Yet  those  who  imagine  that  he  passed  the  greater  part  of 
his  time  in  London  are  greatly  in  error.  The  London 
days  are  minutely  recorded;  the  Sloperton  months  are 
passed  over  in  a  few  lines.  Except  when  he  went  to 
Bowood,  or  some  other  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  the 
words  '  read  and  wrote '  comprise  the  events  of  week  after 
week  of  literary  labour  and  domestic  affection. 

"  Those  days  of  intellectual  society,  and  patient  labour, 
have  alike  passed  away.  The  breakfasts  with  Rogers,  the 
dinners  at  Holland  House,  the  evenings  when  beautiful 
women  and  grave  judges  listened  in  rapture  to  his  song, 
have  passed  away.  The  days  when  a  canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  Excursion  of  Wordsworth,  the  Curse  of  Kehama 
of  Southey,  and  the  Lcdla  Roohh  of  Moore,  burst  in  rapid 
succession  upon  the  Avorld  are  gone.  But  the  world  Avill 
not  forget  that  brilliant  period;  and  while  poetry  has 
charms  for  mankind,  the  Melodies  of  Moore  will  survive." 

As  to  his  religion,  "  That  God  is  Love,"  wrote  Lord 
John  -Russell,  "was  the  summary  of  his  belief;  that  a 


232  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

man  should  love  his  neighbour  as  himself  seems  to  have 
been  the  rule  of  his  life."  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  when 
inaugurating  the  statue  of  the  poet,  bore  testimony  to 
his  moral  and  social  worth  "in  all  the  holy  relations  of 
life."  Lord  O'Hagan,  on  the  same  occasion  said,  "he  was 
the  idol  of  his  household."  And  Dr.  Parr,  in  bequeathing 
him  a  ring,  put  his  opinion  in  this  form,  "To  one  who 
stands  high  in  my  estimation  for  original  genius,  for  his 
exquisite  sensibility,  for  his  independent  spirit,  and  in- 
corruptible integrity."  It  is  quite  evident  that  all  who 
knew  him  loved  him ;  however,  as  Professor  Morley 
observes,  "  He  loved  his  mother  and  his  wife,  but  dining 
out  did  not  deepen  his  character." 

Much  that  was  indelicate  in  his  earlier  writings,  he 
lived  to  regret;  and,  as  he  advanced  in  life,  he  breathed 
a  purer  and  serener  atmosphere.  Sydney  Smith  described 
Moore  as  "a  gentleman  of  small  stature,  but  full  of 
genius,  and  a  steady  friend  of  all  that  is  honourable  and 
just."  And  Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote,  "It  would  be  a 
delightful  addition  to  life,  if  Thomas  Moore  had  a  cottage 
within  two  miles  of  me." 

Lord  John  Russell,  who  was  his  intimate  and  attached 
friend,  closes  the  Memoirs,  Journal  and  Correspondence  of 
Thomas  Moore,  which  he  edited,  with  the  following 
tribute : — "  Those  who  have  enjoyed  the  brilliancy  of  his 
wit,  and  heard  the  enchantments  of  his  song,  will  never 
forget  the  charms  of  his  society.  The  world,  so  long  as 
it  can  be  moved  by  sympathy  and  exalted  by  fancy,  will 
not  willingly  let  die  the  tender  strains,  and  the  patriotic 
fires,  of  a  true  poet." 

Mrs.  Hall,  when  she  visited  Mrs.  Moore,  about  six 
months  after  the  poet's  death,  specially  noticed  her  kind 
ministrations  to  the  poor  villagers;  her  going  upstairs 
and  unlocking  the  library  door  to  sweep  and  dust  it  her- 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS    MOORE.  233 

self,  for  she  never  invited  or  permitted  any  one  to  enter 
it;  and  how  she  watched  over  the  "Tara  ivy"  on  the 
poet's  terrace  walk,  and  the  roses  on  which  he  had  looked, 
or  from  which  he  had  gathered  a  blossom !  She  was  still 
the  same  good  kindly  soul  who,  in  other  years,  had  made 
a  shift  to  do  with  one  servant  in  order  to  enable  Moore 
to  assist  his  mother;  and  who  had  sold  her  jewels  to  pay 
the  debts  of  her  son  who  had  died,  so  that  no  stain  of 
dishonour  might  rest  on  his  memory. 

After  speaking  of  Mrs.  Moore  sitting  for  hours  alone 
in  the  library,  Mrs.  Hall  goes  on  to  say,  "It  often 
seemed  to  me  strange  how  the  last  great  sorrow  had  tided 
over  all  others — all  except  one.  The  eldest  son,  Tom, 
was  known  to  have  died  in  Africa;  they  had  received 
confirmatory  letters  and  all  his  '  things '  long  ago,  but  she 
retained  fragments  of  broken  hope  that  he  would  yet  re- 
turn. One  particular  evening,  we  had  been  sitting  still 
and  silent  a  long  time,  when  suddenly  the  garden  gate 
was  thrown  open;  her  pale  cheek  flushed,  she  started  up 
and  looked  out,  tlien  sank  into  a  chair.  '  What  was  it, 
dearl'  I  inquired.  'You  will  think  it  a  weakness,'  she 
said,  '  or  perhaps  insanity,  but  I  have  never  quite  believed 
in  our  son's  death,  and  I  seldom  hear  the  garden  gate 
opened  at  an  unusual  hour  without  a  hope  that  it  is  my 
boy.' "     What  a  touching  picture! 


234  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MOORE's    popularity — HIS   CENTENARY — ORATION   AND   ODES 
ON   THAT   OCCASION. 

There  are  translations  of  the  following  verses,  in  various 
European  languages,  so  admirably  rendered  that  it  would 
be  hard  for  a  person,  who  did  not  already  know,  to  guess 
which  version  was  the  original : — 

LITTLE  MAN   AND   LITTLE  SOUL. 
A    BALLAD. 

There  was  a  little  Man,  and  he  had  a  little  Soul, 
And  he  said,  "  Little  Soul,  let  us  try,  try,  try. 

Whether  it's  within  our  reach 

To  make  up  a  little  Speech, 
Just  between  little  you  and  little  I,  I,  I, 
Just  between  little  you  and  little  I !" 

Then  said  his  little  Soul, 

Peeping  from  her  little  hole, 
•■'  I  i^rotest,  little  Man,  you  are  stout,  stout,  stout, 

But  if  it's  not  uncivil, 

Pray  tell  me  what  the  devil 
Must  our  little,  little  speech  be  about,  bout,  bout, 
Must  our  little,  little  speech  be  about?" 

The  little  Man  look'd  big 
With  th'  assistance  of  his  wig. 
And  he  call'd  his  little  Soul  to  order,  order,  order, 
Till  she  fear'd  he'd  make  her  jog  in 
To  jail,  like  Thomas  Croggan, 
(As  she  wasn't  duke  or  earl)  to  reward  her,  ward  her,  ward  her. 
As  she  wasn't  duke  or  earl,  to  reward  her. 

The  little  Man  then  spoke, 
"  Little  Soul,  it  is  no  joke, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  235 

For  ;is  sure  as  J — cky  F — 11 — r  loves  a  sup,  sup,  sup, 
I  will  tell  the  Prince  and  People 
What  I  think  of  Church  and  Steeple, 

And  my  little  ])atent  plan  to  prop  them  up,  up,  up, 
And  my  little  patent  plan  to  prop  them  up." 

Away  then  cheek  by  jowl, 

Little  Man  and  little  Soul 
Went  and  spoke  their  little  speech  to  a  tittle,  tittle,  tittle. 

And  the  world  all  declare 

That  this  priggish  little  pair 
Never  yet  in  all  their  lives  look'd  so  little,  little,  little, 
Never  yet  in  all  their  lives  look'd  so  little ! 

It  may  be  noticed,  that  amongst  the  numerous  testi- 
monials to  the  merits  of  Lalla  Eookh,  there  was  one 
pridefuUy  recorded  by  the  autlior,  that  must  have  com- 
pensated him  a  thousand-fold  for  the  coarse  remark  of 
Hazlitt,  that  Moore  ought  not  to  have  pul)lished  Lalla 
Eookh  even  for  three  thousand  guineas.  Its  chief  inci- 
dents were  represented  by  tableaux  vivans  at  the  Chateau- 
Royal,  Berlin,  in  1822,  by  the  imperial  and  royal  person- 
ages whose  names  appear  in  the  following  extract  from  a 
printed  French  programme  of  the  entertainments : — 

"  Faladin,  Grand  Nasir,    -    -    -    Comte  Haach  Mar€chalc  de  Cour. 
Aliris,  Roi  de  Bucharie,     -    -    S.  A.  I.  Le  Grand  Due  Nicholas  de 

Eussie. 

Lalla  Roftkh, S.  A.  I.  La  Grande  Duchcsse. 

Arungzebed,  le  Grand  Mogul,     S.  A.  R.  Le  Prince  Guillaume  (Frbre 

du  Roi). 
Abdallah,  P^re  d'Aliris,      -    -     S.  A.  R.  Le  Due  de  Cumberland. 
La  Reine,  son  Spouse,    -    -    -     S.  A.  R.  La  Princesse  Louise  de  Rad- 

zivil." 

Some  portions  of  the  scenery  were  magnificent,  esj)ecially 
the  gate  of  Eden,  with  its  crystal  bar,  and  occasional 
glimpses  of  splendour  jetting  through  and  falling  upon 
the  repentant  Peri.  At  the  close  of  the  entertainments, 
16 


236  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Son  Altesse  Imperiale  la  Grande  Duchesse,  afterwards 
Empress  of  all  the  Eussias,^  made,  it  is  said,  the  following 
speech: — "  Is  it,  then,  all  over  "J  Are  we  now  at  the  close 
of  all  that  has  given  us  so  much  delight?  And  lives  there 
no  poet  who  will  imjiart  to  others  and  to  future  times 
some  notion  of  the  happiness  we  have  enjoyed  this  even- 
ing?" In  answer  to  this  irresistible  appeal  one  of  the 
actors,  the  poetical  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouqu6,  stepped 
gallantly  forward,  and  vowed  that  he  would  give  the 
poem  to  the  world  in  a  German  dress.  On  hearing  which 
the  Empress  Lalla  Rookh  "graciously  smiled."  This  story 
rests  for  its  authority  on  the  preface  to  Monsieur  Le  Baron 
de  la  Motte  Fouqu^'s  translation. 

Of  Moore,  Lord  O'Hagan  said: — "Whilst  he  lived, 
he  had,  probaljly,  a  wider  popularity  than  any  man  of  his 
day;  and,  since  his  death,  that  popularity  has  been 
indefinitely  diffused,  with  the  ever-widening  expansion  of 
the  races  which  speak  the  tongue  of  England. 

"  I  visited  the  British  Museum  lately,  and,  looking 
through  its  great  folio  catalogue,  I  found  sixty-four  pages 
devoted  exclusively  to  various  editions,  in  various  lan- 
guages, of  the  works  of  Moore — siurely  an  impressive 
proof  of  his  large  approval  by  the  world." 

IVIany  sumptuous  editions  of  Moore's  works  have 
been  called  for,  especially  of  the  Irish  Melodies,  and  of 
Lalla  Rookh.  The  former,  with  161  designs  from  an 
Irish  pencil— that  of  Daniel  Maclise — engraved  on  steel, 
was  published  by  Longmans,  in  1845,  imperial  8vo,  at 
£3,  3s.,  in  boards.  Two  hundred  proof  copies  were  pub- 
lished at  double  that  price;  and  twenty -five  copies,  India 
proofs  in  a  folio,  were  issued  at  £31,  10s.  each! 

And  Lalla  Rookh,  beautifully  printed  in  large  8vo, 

1  Alexandra  Feodorowna,  wife  of  Nicholas  I. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE,  237 

illustrated  by  sixty-nine  exquisite  wood  engravings  from 
designs  by  John  Tenniel,  was  published  in  1861. 

Finden's  Illustrated  Beauties  of  Moore,  in  Imijerial  4to, 
appeared  in  1849,  at  £3,  3s.  and  £5,  55.  per  copy.  This 
was  followed  by  Poetry  and  Pictures  from  Moore,  the  illus- 
trations engraved  from  original  designs  after  Stothard, 
Maclise,  and  sixteen  other  artists. 

Recent  editions  of  Moore's  Poems  have  been  issued  both 
by  Messrs.  Routledge,  and  Messrs.  Warne. 

A  Biography  of  Moore,  by  H.  R.  Montgomery,  was 
published  in  1860.  There  is  also  a  Biography  by  Burke. 
Much  information  may  be  gleaned  from  Moore's  own 
prefaces;  and  biographical  notices  have  been  prefixed  to 
various  subsequent  editions  of  the  poet's  works;  those  by 
Dr.  John  Francis  Waller  and  Mr.  William  Michael  Ros- 
setti  are  specially  noteworthy.  Moore's  Hitherto  Uncol- 
lected Writings,  edited  by  R.  H.  Shepherd,  appeared  in 
London  in  1877. 

Mr.  S.  C.  Hall,  shortly  before  Moore's  Centenary,  pub- 
lished A  Memory  of  Thomas  Moore,  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted  so  long  ago  as  1821.  This  he  issued  in  order 
to  aid  in  collecting  funds  for  the  placing  of  a  memorial 
window,  looking  towards  the  west,  in  Bromham  Church. 
This  stained-glass  window  represents  the  "Last  Judg- 
ment," and  was  unveiled  by  Mr.  Hall  on  Saturday, 
13th  Sept.,  1879.  From  Mr.  Hall's  brochure,  we  have 
already  made  several  quotations. 

A  portrait-bust  of  Moore  is  placed  in  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery. 

The  celebration  of  the  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  Moore  took  place  in  Dublin  (and  elsewhere)  on 
Wednesday,  the  28th  day  of  May,  1879,  and,  as  an 
expression  of  popular  admiration  and  gratitude  for  the 
poet's  works,  was  a  decided  success.     The  Exhibition 


238  LIFE    SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Palace  was  thrown  open  and  filled  with  enthusiastic 
crowds  of  all  classes.  Lord  O'Hagan  delivered  an  ora- 
tion, and  the  Eev.  Charles  Edward  Tisdall,  D.D.,  Chan- 
cellor of  Christ  Church  Cathedral,  read  the  beautiful 
Centenary  Ode,  composed  for  the  occasion  by  Denis 
Florence  M'Carthy,  rendering  it  Avith  great  dramatic 
power;  the  Melodies  were  sung  with  thrilling  effect  by 
some  of  the  leading  singers  of  the  day;  an  interesting 
collection  of  relics  of  the  poet  was  displayed  to  view,  and 
excited  the  eager  curiosity  of  thousands;  and  a  ball  at 
the  Mansion  House,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  seen  in 
Dublin  for  many  a  day,  wound  up  the  day's  proceedings. 
On  all  hands,  the  festival  Avas  admitted  to  have  been 
worthy  of  Moore. 

In  his  oration  on  this  occasion.  Lord  O'Hagan  said: — 
"  Moore  clung  to  Ireland  with  an  intense  and  unchanging 
affection,  which  is  testified  by  every  act  of  his  life  and 
every  page  of  his  writings;  and  all  who,  now  or  hereafter, 
may  cherish  true  attachment  to  her,  Avhatever  may  be 
their  honest  varieties  of  sentiment,  will  find  in  him — 
when  they  have  eliminated  all  they  can  disapprove  in  his 
dealings  with  temporary  struggles  and  the  passions  they 
aroused — an  Irishman  with  whose  love  for  Ireland  and 
constant  desire  to  promote  her  welfare  they  can  have 
cordial  sympathy.  According  to  his  conception  of  her 
interests  and  his  own  duty,  he  was  staunch  to  her,  in 
periods  of  the  worst  discouragement  as  in  those  of 
the  highest  hope;  and  he  refused,  for  her  sake,  to  falsify 
his  convictions,  when  he  might  have  gained  place  and 
power  by  giving  even  silent  countenance  to  public  action 
of  which  he  disapproved.  For  these  things,  he  should 
command  the  respect  of  men  of  every  creed  and  party. 
But,  by  the  majority  of  Irishmen,  he  is  entitled  to  be 
regarded  with  a  far  warmer  feeling;  and  of  that  feeling, 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  239 

even  in  this  mixed  assemljly,  one  who  cherishes  it  deeply 
will  not  be  forbidden  to  speak.  I  speak  of  it  as  referring 
to  an  event  long  past — as  an  Englishman  might  speak  of 
Eunnymede,  or  a  Scotchman  of  Bannockburn.  During 
the  long  struggle  for  emancipation,  he  never  failed  or 
faltered  for  an  hour,  in  urging  the  claims  of  the  Catholics 
of  Ireland.  By  playful  wit,  by  pungent  sarcasm,  by 
vehement  invective — with  all  the  energy  of  his  soul  and 
all  the  resources  of  his  genius — he  pressed  them  on  a 
reluctant  legislature  and  a  hostile  people.  And  the  influ- 
ence he  exerted  was  incalculable.  Circles,  into  which 
political  agitation  could  never  break,  opened  freely  to 
the  pleadings  of  the  poet.  The  same  melodious  voice, 
which  roused  the  Irish  millions  to  remember  they  had  a 
country,  and  rely  on  themselves  for  their  own  political 
salvation,  resounded  in  the  halls  and  saloons  of  the  British 
aristocracy,  dispelling  prejudice  and  denouncing  wrong, 
with  a  power  and  sweetness  which  touched  many  a  heart, 
and  awakened  many  a  conscience  theretofore  hardened 
against  the  cold  appeals  of  justice.  The  strife  is  over,  and 
the  victory  achieved.  We  are  fast  forgetting  the  en- 
venomed hatreds  and  cruel  struggles  of  other  days.  We 
will  yet  learn,  with  God's  blessing,  to  trust  each  other 
and  love  each  other,  as  if  they  had  never  been.  But,  in 
the  prosperous  harmony  of  a  better  time,  the  enfranchised 
masses  of  the  Irish  people  can  never  be  such  ingrates  as 
to  forget  the  noble  service  they  owed,  in  their  hour  of 
trial,  to  the  courage  and  the  faithfulness  of  Thomas  Moore. 
And  if  his  patriotism  be  undeniable,  can  any  one  doubt 
of  the  independence  and  consistency  which,  in  the  view 
of  Lord  Charlemont,  made  his  character  complete.  I 
venture  to  say,  that  no  man,  of  whom  we  have  authentic 
record,  was  more  distinguished  by  those  high  qualities. 
He  was  j^laced  in  circumstances  most  adverse  to  the  cul- 


240  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

tivation  of  them.  He  was  poor.  He  had  to  procure,  by 
continuous  effort,  the  ordinary  comforts  of  existence. 
He  moved  amongst  the  wealthy  and  the  great,  many  of 
whom  had  strong  attachment  to  him,  and  would  have 
been  happy  to  supply  his  wants.  He  had  faculties  of 
brain  and  pen,  invaluable  to  any  party  which  could  have 
procured  the  use  of  them.  He  loved  his  relatives,  with  a 
devoted  affection  which  miglit  have  prompted  any  sacri- 
fice to  elevate  them  and  advance  their  interests.  Briefly, 
he  had  the  amplest  opportunities  of  commanding  a  profit- 
able dependence,  and  the  strongest  temptations  to  employ 
them.  And  he  could  have  done  so,  without  any  flagrant 
impropriety,  or  any  forfeiture  of  the  world's  esteem.  But 
he  refused.  He  endured  his  poverty,  and  preserved  his 
honour.  He  lived  and  died  a  self-relying,  self-abnegating, 
self-respecting  man,  and  left  to  posterity  an  example  of 
independence — seldom  more  needed  than  at  the  present 
hour — which,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  not  had  many  paral- 
lels.   .    .    . 

"  But,  much  more  was  wanting,  for  the  safety  and  the 
honour  of  our  dear  old  music.  It  needed  some  one 
who  could  clothe  it  in  fitting  words,  and  commend  it  to 
popular  acceptance.  It  needed  a  gifted  man  to  interpret 
the  spirit  and  character  of  Ireland — her  fancy  and  her 
feeling^ier  sorrows  and  her  hopes.  It  needed  that  the 
'  inarticulate  poetry '  of  sound  should  find  verbal  expres- 
sion, and  that  the  strains  which  had  floated  down  through 
the  ages — so  sweet,  so  various,  so  marvellously  express- 
ing, in  their  pathos  and  their  mirthfulness,  the  changeful 
phases  of  the  Irish  nature — should  at  last  be  '  married  to 
immortal  verse.'  The  hour  came — and  the  man.  The 
concurrence  was  singular,  as  it  was  fortunate.  The 
harpers  had  met,  and  Bunting  was  preparing  his  collec- 
tions, whilst  ]\Ioore  was  practising  on  the  broken  harpsi- 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  241 

chord  which  his  father  had  taken  in  discharge  of  a  trifling 
debt.  Occasion,  and  capacity  to  use  it,  are  the  conditions 
of  success  in  human  affairs.  He  discovered  his  faculty 
for  music  and  his  vocation  as  a  poet;  and  the  melodies 
he  learned  to  love  induced  him  to  exercise  the  one,  and 
to  pursue  the  other,  until  he  became  for  Ireland,  in  Shel- 
ley's famous  words — 

" '  The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong.' 

In  the  earliest  advertisement  of  the  Melodies,  Moore  said 
— that,  if  Burns  had  been  an  Irishman,  '  his  heart  would 
have  been  proud  of  such  music,  and  he  Avould  have  made 
it  immortal.'  He  had  not  then  tested  his  own  powers, 
and  could  scarcely  have  anticij^ated  that  he  himself  was 
destined  to  give  it  immortality.  But  we  may  fairly  apply 
his  words  to  his  accomplished  work.  Petrie  recognized 
the  fact,  that  the  finest  of  our  airs  obtained  their  first 
appreciation  in  later  days,  less  from  a  sense  of  their 
intrinsic  merit  than  from  their  union  with  lyrics  which 
seized  on  the  popular  attention;  and  thus  it  was  that 
Moore  saved  them  from  degradation,  and  made  them  a 
present  service  and  a  possession  for  all  time  to  his  country 
and  his  race.  Very  long  ago,  in  words  too  old  to  be  re- 
membered, I  said  that  he  did  for  us  what  we  wanted,  and 
no  one  had  done  before  him.  Exquisitely  organized  in 
soul  and  sense,  he  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  our 
melodies,  associated  them  with  songs,  such  as  had  not 
been  heard  in  latter  days,  and  made  them  'joys  for  ever' 
to  his  country  and  the  world.  Those  songs  have  re- 
sounded wherever  the  English  tongue — destined,  as  it 
seems,  to  become  the  dominant  language  of  mankind — 
is  borne  by  the  millions  who  utter  it  throughout  the 
earth.  They  are  resounding  still  beneath  the  eastern 
suns,  and  amidst  Canadian  snows.  —  in   the  forests  of 


242  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

the  West,  and  at  the  antipodes,  where  young  empires 
begin  their  conqueiing  progress.  The  same  sweet 
words,  coupled  with  the  same  old  music,  have  been 
heard  throughout  Christendom,  and  far  beyond  it — have 
been  sung  by  the  Frenchman  and  the  Russian,  tlie  Per- 
sian and  the  Pole — and  thus  have  the  name,  and  the 
history,  and  the  genius  of  our  land  been  made  familiar 
to  distant  nations,  and  we  all  have  been  exalted  by 
claiming,  as  our  own,  one  of  the  greatest  lyrists  of  modern 
times." 

In  illustration  of  the  honours  paid  to  his  memory  by 
those  who  are  far  away,  we  quote  the  concluding  stanzas 
from  a  centenary  ode  written  by  T.  D.  Sullivan,  and 
recited,  at  the  celebration  of  the  Tom  Moore  Literary 
Club,  in  San  Francisco : — 

"  Oh,  Tara's  hill  may  waste  away, 
The  Shannon's  source  may  fail, 
Tlie  mingled  waters  cease  to  play 
Through  fair  Avoca's  vale ; 
*  Loved  Arranmore '  may  fade  from  sight, 
But  you  will  still  endure 
In  Irish  hearts,  fresh,  warm,  and  bright, 
Enchanting  song's  of  Moore ! 

"  Yea,  even  if  our  ancient  race 

In  time  should  cease  to  be. 
And  if  our  dear  old  native  place 

Should  sink  into  the  sea — 
The  world  would  save  from  out  the  wave, 

And  hoLl  the  prize  secure. 
The  harp  you  strung,  the  songs  you  sung, 

Oar  own  immortal  Moore  !" 

Scrihncr's  Monthly  Magazine,  for  July,  contained  the 
following  fine  tribute  by  Richard  Henry  Stoddard : — 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   TUOMAS   MOORE.  243 

THOMAS    MOORE. 
(May  28,  1S79.) 

A  lord  of  lyric  song  was  born 

A  hundred  years  ago  to-day ; 
Loved  of  that  race  that  long  has  worn 

The  shamrock  for  the  bay ! 

He  sung  of  wine,  and  sung  of  flowers, 
Of  woman's  smile,  and  woman's  tear, — ■ 

Light  songs,  that  suit  our  lighter  hours, 
But  oh,  how  bright  and  dear  ! 

Who  will  may  build  the  epic  verse. 
And,  Atlas-like,  its  weight  sustain ; 

Or  solemn  tragedies  rehearse 
In  high,  heroic  strain. 

So  be  it.     But  when  all  is  done, 

The  heart  demands  for  happy  days 
The  lyrics  of  Anacreon, 

And  Sappho's  tender  lays. 

Soft  souls  with  tliese  are  satisfied  ; 

He  loved  them,  but  exacted  more, — 
For  his  the  lash  that  Horace  plied. 

The  sword  Harmodius  wore  ! 

Where  art  thou,  Brian,  and  thy  knights, 

So  dreaded  by  the  flying  Dane? 
And  thou,  Con,  of  the  Hundred  Figlits? 

Your  spirits  are  not  slain  ! 

Strike  for  us,  as  ye  did  of  yore. 

Be  with  us, — we  shall  conquer  still. 

Though  Irish  kings  are  ciowned  no  more 
On  Tara's  holy  hill ! 

Perhaps  he  was  not  hero  boi'n, 

Like  those  he  sung — Heaven  only  knows; 


244  LIFE    SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

He  had  the  rose  without  the  thorn, 
But  he  deserved  the  rose  ! 

For  underneath  its  odorous  light 

His  heart  was  warm,  his  soul  was  strong ; 

He  kept  his  love  of  country  bright, 
And  sung  her  sweetest  song ! 

Therefore  her  sons  have  gathered  here 

To  honour  him,  as  few  before, 
And  blazon  on  his  hundredth  year 

The  fame  of  Thomas  Moore  ! 

And  the  following  admirable  poem  was  read  at  the 
Boston  centenary  of  the  Bard  of  Erin  by  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  the  well-known  "Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-table." 

THOMAS   MOOEE. 

Enchanter  of  Erin,  whose  magic  lias  bound  iis. 

Thy  wand  for  one  moment  we  fondly  would  claim, 
Entranced  while  it  summons  the  phantoms  around  us 

That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of  thy  name. 
The  tell-tales  of  memory  wake  from  their  slumbers, 

I  hear  the  old  song  with  its  tender  refrain. 
What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey- voiced  numbers, 

What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  exquisite  strain  ! 
The  home  of  my  childhood  comes  back  as  a  vision — 

Hark  !  hark!  a  soft  chord  from  its  song-haunted  room, 
'Tis  a  morning  of  May,  when  the  air  is  elysian, 

The  syringa  in  bud  and  the  lilac  in  bloom ; 
We  are  clustered  around  the  "  Clementi  "  piano^ 

There  were  six  of  us  then,  there  are  two  of  us  now — 
Slie  is  singing,  the  girl  with  the  silver  soprano. 

How  "  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  "  was  false  to  his  vow. 
"  Let  Erin  remember  "  the  echoes  are  calling, 

Tlirough  "the  Vale  of  Avoca"  the  waters  are  rolled, 
"The  Exile"  laments  while  the  night  dews  are  falling, 
"  The  Morninsr  of  Life  "  dawns  asain  as  of  old. 


LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOOUE.  245 

But,  ah!  those  wai'in  love  songs  of  fresh  adolescence 

Around  us  such  raptures  celestial  tliey  flung, 
That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed  its  quintessence 

Through  the  seraph-toned  lijDsof  the  maiden  that  sung. 
Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my  boyhood  enchanted, 

As  when  the  smooth  wave  by  the  angel  was  stirred, 
Yet  still  with  their  miisic  is  memory  haunted. 

And  oft  in  my  di'eams  are  their  melodies  heard  j 
I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  returning ; 

The  crowd  that  was  kneeling  no  longer  is  there ; 
The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  bi^ands  are  still  burning, 

And  sandal  and  cinnamon  sweeten  the  air. 

The  veil,  for  her  bridal,  young  Summer  is  weaving 

In  her  azure-domed  hall  with  its  tapestried  floor, 
And  spring,  the  last  tear-drops  of  May-dew,  is  leaving 

On  the  daisy  of  Burns  and  the  shamrock  of  Moore. 
How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them  together, 

The  song  of  the  minstrels,  whose  record  we  scan, 
One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over  the  heather, 

One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  Odalisque's  fan ; 
Ah!  passion  can  glow  mid  a  palace's  splendour; 

The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of  the  bird, 
And  the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whispers  as  tender 

As  ever  the  blossoming  hawtliorn  has  heard. 
No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered  graces 

Should  fright  the  young  loves  from  theirwarm  little  nest. 
For  the  heart  of  a  Queen,  under  jewels  and  laces. 

Beats  time  with  tlie  pulse  in  the  peasant  girl's  breast. 
Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  nature's  bestowing. 

Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet  we  hold ; 
Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flowing. 

The  shell  from  the  seaside,  the  chalice  of  gold. 
The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had  listened. 

Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liberty's  shrine ; 
For  Ctjela's  loved  minstrel  the  holly  wreath  glistened ; 

For  Erin's  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  entwine — 
And  while  the  fresh  blossoms  of  Summer  are  braided, 

For  the  sea-girdled,  stream-silvered,  lake-jewelled  isle, 


246  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven  unfaded, 
While  Shannon  and  Liftey  shall  dimple  and  smile. 

The  laud  where  the  staff'  of  St.  Patrick  was  planted, 
Where  the  shamrock  grows  green  from  the  cliffs  to  the 
shore, 

The  land  of  fair  maidens  and  heroes  undaunted, 

Shall  wreath  her  bright  harp  with  the  garlands  of  Moore. 

The  following  fine-toned  and  beautiful  ode  by  Denis 
Florence  M 'Car thy,  which  was  read  by  Dr.  Tisdall  at 
the  Dublin  Moore  Centenary,  and  to  which  allusion  has 
already  been  made,  we  deem  a  fitting  conclusion  for  this 
volume : — 

CENTENAEY  ODE. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  MOORE, 

Joy  to  lernc,  joy, 

This  day  a  deathless  crown  is  won. 

Her  Child  of  Song,  her  glorious  son, 
Her  Minstrel  Boy, 
Attains  his  century  of  fame, 

Completes  the  time-allotted  zone, 
And  proudly  with  the  world's  acclaim 

Ascends  the  Lyric  Throne. 

Yes,  joy  to  her  whose  path  so  long, 
Slow  journeying  to  her  realm  of  rest 
O'er  many  a  rugged  mountain's  cresf, 
He  charmed  with  his  enchanting  song, 
Like  his  own  princess  in  the  tale, 
When  he  who  had  her  way  beguiled 
Thi'ough  many  a  bleak  and  desert  wild 
Until  she  reached  Cashmere's  bright  vale 
Had  ceased  those  notes  to  play  and  sing 
To  which  her  heart  responsive  swelled, 
She  looking  up  in  him  beheld 
Her  minstrel  lover  and  her  king — 
So  Erin  now,  her  journey  well-nigh  o'er. 
Enraptured  sees  her  minstrel  king  in  Moore. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  247 

And  round  that  throne  whose  light  to-day 

O'er  all  the  world  is  cast, 
In  words  though  weak,  in  hues  though  faint, 
Congenial  Fancy  rise  and  j^aint 

The  spirits  of  the  past 
Who  here  their  homage  pay — 

Those  who  his  youthful  Muse  inspired, 

Those  who  his  early  genius  fired 
To  emulate  their  lay  : — 
And  as  in  some  phantasmal  glass 
Let  the  immortal  spirits  ]:)ass, 
Let  each  renew  the  inspiring  strain, 
And  fire  the  poet's  soul  again. 

First  there  comes  from  classic  Greece, 
Beaming  love  and  breathing  peace, 
With  her  pure  sweet  smiling  face, 
The  glory  of  the  ^olian  race. 
Beauteous  Sappho,  violet-crowned, 
Shedding  joy  and  rapture  round: — 
In  her  hand  a  harp  she  bears, 
Parent  of  celestial  airs — , 
Love  leaps  trembling  from  each  wire, 
Every  chord  a  string  of  fire : — 
How  the  i^oet's  heart  doth  beat, 
How  his  li^js  the  notes  repeat. 
Till  in  rapture  borne  along. 
The  Sapphic  lute,  the  lyrist's  song 
Blend  in  one  delicious  strain, 
Never  to  divide  again. 

And  beside  the  ^olian  Queen 
Great  Alcseus'  form  is  seen, 
He  takes  up  in  voice  more  strong 
The  dying  cadence  of  the  song. 
And  on  loud-resounding  strings, 
Hui'ls  his  wrath  on  tyrant  kings : — 
Like  to  incandescent  coal 
On  the  poet's  kindred  soul 


248  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Fall  these  words  of  living  flame, 
Till  their  songs  become  the  same, — 
The  same  hate  of  slavery's  )iight, 
The  same  love  of  freedom's  light, 
Scorning  aught  that  stops  its  way, 
Come  the  black  cloud  whence  it  may, 
Lift  alike  the  inspired  song 
And  the  liquid  notes  prolong. 

Cai'olling  a  livelier  measure 
Comes  the  Teian  Bard  of  Pleasure, 
Round  his  brow  whei'e  joy  reposes 
Eadiant  Love  enwreaths  his  roses, 
Eapture  in  his  verse  is  ringing, 
Soft  persuasion  in  his  singing : — 
'Twas  the  same  melodious  ditty 
Moved  Polycrates  to  pity. 
Made  that  tyrant  heart  surrender 
Captive  to  a  tone  so  tender : 
To  the  younger  bard  inclining. 
Round  his  brow  the  roses  twining, 
First  the  wreath  in  red  wine  steeping. 
He  his  cithern  to  his  keeping 
Yields,  its  glorious  fate  foreseeing. 
From  her  chains  a  nation  freeing. 
Fetters  new  around  it  flinging 
In  the  flowers  of  his  own  singing. 

But  who  is  this  that  fiom  the  misty  cloud 

Of  immemorial  years. 
Wrapped  in  the  vesture  of  his  vaporous  shroud 

With  solemn  step  appears] 
His  head  with  oak-leaves  and  with  ivy  crowned 

Lets  fall  its  silken  snow, 
While  the  white  billows  of  his  beard  unbound 

Athwart  his  bosom  flow  :— 
Who  is  this  venerable  form 
Whose  hands,  prelusive  of  the  storm 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  249 

Across  bis  harp-strings  play — 
That  harp  which  trembling  in  his  hand 
Impatient  waits  its  lord's  command 

To  pour  the  impassioned  lay  1 
Who  is  it  comes  with  reverential  hail 

To  greet  the  Bard  who  sang  his  country  best? 
'Tis  Ossian — primal  Poet  of  the  Gael — 

The  Homer  of  the  West. 

He  sings  the  heroic  tales  of  old 

When  Ireland  yet  was  free, 
Of  many  a  fight  and  foray  bokl, 

And  raid  beyond  the  sea. 

Of  all  the  famous  deeds  of  Fin, 

And  all  the  wiles  of  Maev, 
Now  thunders  'mid  the  battle's  din, 

Now  sobs  beside  the  wave. 

That  wave  empurpled  by  the  sword 

The  hero  used  too  well, 
When  great  Cuchullin  held  the  ford, 

And  fair  Ferdiah  fell. 

And  now  his  prophet  eye  is  cast 

As  o'er  a  boundless  plain, 
He  sees  the  future  as  the  past, 

And  blends  them  in  his  strain. 

The  Red-Branch  Knights  their  flags  unfold 

When  danger's  fi-ont  appears, 
The  Sun-burst  breaks  through  clouds  of  gold 

To  glorify  their  spears. 

But  ah !  a  darker  hour  drew  nigh, 

The  hour  of  Erin's  woe. 
When  she,  though  destined  not  to  die 

Lay  prostrate  'neath  the  foe. 

When  broke  were  all  the  arms  she  bore. 
And  bravely  bore  in  vain, 


250  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOOEE. 

Till  even  lier  harp  could  sound  no  more 
Beneath  the  victor's  chain. 

Ah  !  dire  constraint,  ah  !  cruel  wrong, 

To  fetter  thus  its  chord, 
But  well  they  knew  that  Ireland's  song 

Was  keener  than  her  sword. 

That  song  would  pierce  where  swords  would  fail, 

And  o'er  the  battle's  din, 
The  sweet  sad  music  of  the  Gael 

A  peaceful  victory  win. 

Long  was  the  trance,  but  sweet  and  low 

The  harp  breathed  out  again 
Its  speechless  wail,  its  wordless  woe 

In  Carolan's  witching  strain. 

Until  at  last  the  gift  of  words 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 
Poured  o'er  the  now  enfranchised  chords 

The  articulate  light  of  song. 

Poui'ed  the  bright  light  from  genius  won 
That  woke  the  harp's  wild  lays — 

Even  as  that  statue  which  the  sun 
Made  vocal  with  his  rays. 

Thus  Ossian  in  disparted  dream 

Outpoured  the  varied  lay. 
But  now  in  one  united  stream 

His  rapture  finds  its  way: — 

"  Yes,  in  thy  hands,  illustrious  son, 
The  harp  shall  speak  once  more. 
Its  sweet  lament  shall  rippling  run 
From  listening  shore  to  shore. 

"  Till  mighty  lands  that  lie  unknown 
Far  in  the  fabled  West, 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  251 

And  giant  isles  of  verdure  thrown 
Upon  the  South  Sea's  breast, 

'  And  plains  where  rushing  rivers  flow — 

Fit  emblems  of  the  free — 
Shall  learn  to  know  of  Ireland's  woe, 
And  Ireland's  weal  through  thee." 

'Twas  thus  he  sang, 

And  while  tumultuous  plaudits  rang 

From  the  immortal  throng, 
In  the  younger  minstrel's  hand 
He  placed  the  emblem  of  the  land — 

The  harp  of  Irish  song. 

Oh  !  what  dulcet  notes  are  heard, 
Never  bird 

Soaring  through  the  sunny  air 
Like  a  prayer 

Borne  by  angels'  hands  on  high 
So  entranced  the  listening  sky 
As  his  song — 

Soft,  pathetic,  joyous,  strong, 
Rising  now  in  rapid  flight 
Out  of  sight 

Like  a  lark  in  its  own  light. 
Now  descending  low  and  sweet 
To  our  feet. 

Till  the  odours  of  the  grass 
With  the  light  notes  as  they  pass 
Blend  and  meet. 
All  that  Erin's  memory  guards 
In  her  heart, 

Deeds  of  heroes,  songs  of  bards. 
Have  their  part. 
Brian's  glories  reappear, 
Fionualla's  song  we  hear, 
Tara's  walls  I'esound  again 
With  a  more  inspired  strain, 
11 


252  LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS    MOORE. 

Rival  rivers  meet  and  join, 
Stately  Shannon  blends  with  Boyne, 
While  on  high  the  storm-winds  cease 
Heralding  the  arch  of  peace. 

And  all  the  bright  creations  fair 

That  'neath  his  master-hand  awake, 
Some  in  tears  and  some  in  smiles, 
Like  Nea  in  the  summer  isles, 

Or  Kathleen  by  the  lonely  lake, 
Eound  his  radiant  throne  repair : 
Nay,  his  own  Peri  of  the  air 

Now  no  more  disconsolate. 

Gives  in  at  Fame's  celestial  gate 
His  passport  to  the  skies — 

The  gift  to  Heaven  most  dear, 

His  country's  tear. 
From  every  lip  the  glad  refrain  doth  rise, 
"  Joy,  ever  joy,  his  glorious  task  is  done, 
The  gates  are  passed  and  Fame's  bright  heaven  is  won !" 

Ah  !  yes,  the  work,  the  glorious  work  is  done. 
And  Erin  crowns  to-day  her  brightest  son, 
Around  his  brow  entwines  the  victor  bay. 
And  lives  herself  immortal  in  his  lay — 
Leads  him  with  honour  to  her  highest  place, 
For  he  had  borne  his  more  than  mother's  name 
Proudly  along  the  Olympic  lists  of  fame 
AVlien  mighty  athletes  struggled  in  the  race. 
Byron,  the  swift-souled  spirit,  in  his  pride 
Paused  to  cheer  on  the  rival  by  his  side. 
And  Lycidas  so  long- 
Lost  in  the  light  of  his  own  dazzling  song, 
Although  himself  unseen, 

Gave  the  bright  wreath  that  might  his  own  have  been 
To  him  whom  mid  the  mountain  shepherd  throng. 
The  minstrels  of  the  isles, 
When  Adonais  died  so  fair  and  young, 
lerue  sent  from  out  her  green  defiles 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  253 

"The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue."— 
And  he  who  sang  of  Poland's  kindred  woes, 
And  Hope's  delicious  dream. 
And  all  the  mighty  minstrels  who  arose 
In  that  auroral  gleam 
That  o'er  our  age  a  blaze  of  glory  threw 
Which  Shakspere's  only  knew — 
Some  from  their  hidden  haunts  remote, 
Like  him  the  lonely  hermit  of  the  hills, 
Whose  song  like  some  great  organ  note 
The  whole  horizon  fills. 
Or  the  great  Master  he  whose  magic  hand, 
Wielding  the  wand  from  which  such  wonder  flov."3. 
Transformed  the  lineaments  of  a  rugged  land, 
And  left  the  Thistle  lovely  as  the  Eose. 
Oh  !  in  a  concei-t  of  such  minstrelsy, 
In  such  a  glorious  company. 
What  pride  for  Ireland's  harp  to  sound, 
For  Ireland's  son  to  share, 
What  pride  to  see  him  glory-crowned, 
And  hear  amid  the  dazzling  gleam 
Upon  the  rapt  and  ravished  air 
Her  harp  still  sound  sujireme  ! 

Glory  to  Moore,  eternal  be  the  glory 
That  here  we  crown  and  consecrate  to-day. 

Glory  to  Moore,  for  he  has  sung  oui'  story 

In  strains  whose  sweetness  ne'er  can  pass  away. 

Glory  to  Moore,  for  he  has  sighed  our  sorrow 

In  such  a  wail  of  melody  divine. 
That  even  from  grief  a  passing  joy  we  borrow, 

And  linger  long  o'er  each  lamenting  line. 

Glory  to  Moore,  that  in  his  songs  of  gladness 
Which  neither  change  nor  time  can  e'er  destroy. 

Though  mingled  oft  with  some  faint  sigh  of  sadness. 
He  sings  his  country's  rapture  and  its  joy. 


254  LIFE   SKETCH   OF   THOMAS   MOORE, 

What  wit  like  his  flings  out  electric  flashes 
That  make  the  numbers  sj^arkle  as  they  run^ 

Wit  that  revives  dull  history's  Dead-sea  ashes, 
And  makes  the  ripe  fruit  glisten  in  the  sun? 

What  fancy  full  of  loveliness  and  lightness 
Has  spread  like  his  as  at  some  dazzling  feast, 

The  fruits  and  flowers,  the  beauty  and  the  brightness, 
And  all  the  golden  glories  of  the  East? 

Perpetual  blooms  his  bower  of  summer  roses, 
No  winter  comes  to  turn  his  green  leaves  sere, 

Beside  his  song-stream  where  tliQ  swan  reposes 
The  bulbul  sings  as  by  the  Bendemeer. 

But  back  returning  from  his  flight  with  Peris, 
Above  his  native  fields  he  sings  his  best, 

Like  to  the  lai'k  whose  rapture  never  wearies. 
When  poised  in  air  he  singeth  o'er  his  nest. 

And  so  we  rank  him  with  the  great  departed. 
The  kings  of  song  who  rule  us  from  their  urns, 

The  souls  inspired,  the  natures  noble  hearted. 
And  place  him  jaroudly  by  the  side  of  Burns. 

And  as  not  only  by  the  Calton  Mountain 
Is  Scotland's  baixl  i-emembered  and  revered, 

But  wheresoe'er,  like  some  o'erflowing  fountain. 
Its  hardy  I'ace  a  prosperous  path  has  cleared. 

There,  'mid  the  roar  of  newly  rising  cities. 
His  glorious  name  is  heard  on  every  tongue, 

There  to  the  music  of  immortal  ditties. 

His  lays  of  love,  his  patriot  songs  are  sung; 

So  not  alone  beside  that  Bay  of  beauty 
That  guards  the  portals  of  his  native  town, 

Where  like  two  watchful  sentinels  on  duty, 

Howth  and  Killiney  from  their  heights  look  down. 


LIFE   SKETCH    OF   THOMAS   MOORE.  255 

But  wheresoe'er  the  exiled  race  hath  drifted, 
By  wliat  far  sea,  what  mighty  stream  beside, 

Thei-e  shall  to-day  the  poet's  name  be  lifted. 
And  Moore  proclaimed  its  glory  and  its  pride. 

There  shall  his  name  be  held  in  fond  memento, 
There  shall  his  songs  resound  for  evermore, 

Whether  beside  the  golden  Sacramento, 
Or  where  Niagara's  thunder  shakes  the  shore; — 

For  all  that's  bright  indeed  must  fade  and  perish. 
And  all  that's  sweet  when  sweetest  not  endure. 

Before  the  world  shall  cease  to  love  and  cherish 
The  wit  and  song,  the  name  and  fame  of  Moore. 


BOOKS  OF  PERMANENT  INTEREST, 

PUBLISHED    BY 
HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


j8S=  Hakpek  &  Brotukrb  unll  send  any  of  the  fullowing  works  by  mail, 
postage  prejKiid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the 
price. 

Deshler's  Afternoons  loifh  the  Poets. 

Afternoons  with  the  Poets.     By  C.  D.  Deshler.    Post  8vo,  Cloth, 

$1  75. 

Bayne's  Lessons  from  My  Masters. 

Lessons  from  My  Masters :  Carlyle,  Tennvson,  and  Ruskin.  By 
Peter  Bayne,  M.A.,  LL.D.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Symonds^s  Greek  Poets. 

Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets.  By  John  Addington  Symonds. 
2  vols.,  square  16mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

Symonds' s  Southern  Europe. 

Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern  Europe.  By  John  Addixgton 
Symonds.     2  vols.,  square  16mo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Maliaffy's   Greek  Literature. 

A  History  of  Classical  Greek  Literature.  By  the  Rev.  J.  P.  Ma- 
HAFFY,  M.A.,  Trinitv  College,  Dublin,  Author  of  "  Social  Life  in 
Greece."     2  vols.,  i2mo.  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Miss  Mitford^s  Life  and  Letters. 

The  Life  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  Author  of  "  Our  Village,"  &c., 
told  by  Herself  in  Letters  to  her  Friends.  With  Anecdotes  and 
Sketches  of  her  most  celebrated  Contemporaries.  Edited  by  the 
Rev.  A.  G.  K.  L'Estrange.     2  vols.,  12nio,  Cloth,  $-3  50. 

Miss  Mitford'' s  Recollections. 

Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life ;  or,  Books,  Places,  and  People. 
By  Mary  Russell  Mitford.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Bcattie's  Life  and  Letters  of  Thomas  Campbell. 

Life  and  Letters  of  Thomas  Campbell.  Edited  by  W.  Beattie, 
M.D.  With  an  Introductory  Letter  by  Washington  Irving.  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  |3  00. 


Books  of  Permanent  Interest. 


Leigh  Hmifs  Autobiography. 

Autobiography  of  Leigh  Hunt,  with  Reminiscences  of  Friends 
and  Contemporaries.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Leigh  Huufs  Men,  Women,  and  Books. 

Men,  Women,  and  Books.  A  Selection  of  Sketches,  Essays,  and 
Critical  Memoirs  from  his  Uncollected  Prose  Writings.  By  Leigh 
Hunt.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00;  Half  Calf,  |6  50. 

Carleton's  Far^n  Legends. 

Farm  Legends.  By  Will  Carleton.  Illustrated.  Square  8vo, 
Ornamental  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 

CarletoiTbS  Farm  Ballads. 

Farm  Ballads.  By  Will  Carleton.  Illustrated.  Square  8vo, 
Ornamental  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 

Seymour'' s  Self-Made  Men. 

Self-Made  Men.  By  Charles  C.  B.  Seymour.  Many  Portraits. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

The  Bazar  Book  of  Decorum. 

The  Bazar  Book  of  Decorum.  The  Care  of  the  Person,  Manners, 
Etiquette,  and  Ceremonials.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

The  Bazar  Book  of  the  Household. 

The  Bazar  Book  of  the  Household.  Marriage,  Establishment, 
Servants,  Housekeeping,  Children,  Home  Life,  Company.  16mo, 
Cloth,  $1  00. 

The  Bazar  Book  oj  Health. 

The  Bazar  Book  of  Health.  The  Dwelling,  the  Nursery,  the  Bed- 
room, the  Dining-Room,  the  Parlor,  the  Library,  the  Kitchen,  the 
Sick-Room.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Countess  GuiccioWs  Lord  Byron. 

My  Recollections  of  Lord  Byron ;  and  those  of  Eye-Witnesses  of 
his  Life.  By  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  Translated  by  Hubert  E. 
H.  Jerningham.     With  a  Portrait.     12mo,  Cloth,  ,fl  75. 

Sara  Coleridge's  Memoir  and  Letters. 

Memoir  and  Letters  of  Sara  Coleridge.  Edited  by  her  Daugh- 
ter. With  Two  Portraits  on  Steel.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50 ; 
Half  Calf,  $4  50. 


Books  of  Permanent  Interest. 


Haweis's  Music  and  Morals. 

Music  and  Morals.  By  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis,  M.A.  With  Illus- 
trations and  Diagrams.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

LaniUs  Conqjlete  Wo7-ks. 

The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.  Comprising  his  Letters,  Poems, 
Essays  of  Elia,  Essays  upon  Shakspeare,  Hogarth,  &c.,  and  a 
Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the  Final  Memorials,  by  T.  Noon  Tal- 
FOUKD.     Portrait.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Yonge's  Life  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

The  Life  of  Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.  By  Charles 
Duke  Yonge.     With  Portrait.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  60. 

Randolph'' s  Domestic  Life  of  Jefferson. 

The  Domestic  Life  of  Thomas  Jefferson :  compiled  from  Family 
Letters  and  Reminiscences,  by  his  Great-Granddaughter,  Sarah 
N.  Randolph.     Illustrated.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Whartons'  Queens  of  Society. 

The  Queens  of  Society.  By  Grace  and  Philip  Wharton.  Il- 
lustrated by  Charles  Altamout  Doyle  and  the  Brothers  Dalziel. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Whartons'  Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society. 

The  Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society.  By  Grace  and  Philip  Whar- 
ton. With  Illustrations  from  Drawings  by  H.  Browne  and  Jas. 
Godwin.      Engraved   by  the   Brothers   Dalziel.      12mo,  Cloth, 

$1  75. 

Parian's  Caricature  and  other  Comic  Art. 

Caricature,  and  other  Comic  Art,  in  all  Times  and  Many  Lands. 
By  James  Parton.  AVith  203  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  Gilt 
Tops  and  Uncut  Edges,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

Trotvhridge' s  Booh  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems. 

The  Book  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems.  By  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 
Illustrated.  Bvo,  Ornamental  Covers,  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50.  (In  a 
box.) 

Bigelow's  Bench  and  Bar. 

Bench  and  Bar :  a  Complete  Digest  of  the  Wit,  Humor,  Asperi- 
ties, and  Amenities  of  the  Law.  New  Edition,  greatly  Enlarged. 
By  L.  J.  BiGELOW.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  ,$2  00. 


Books  of  Permanent  Interest. 


Clayton's  Queens  of  Song. 

Queens  of  Song :  being  Memoirs  of  some  of  the  most  Celebrated 
Female  Vocalists  who  have  performed  on  the  Lyric  Stage,  from 
the  Earliest  Days  of  Opera  to  the  Present  Time.  To  which  is 
added  a  Chronological  List  of  all  the  Operas  that  have  been  per- 
formed in  Europe.  By  Ellen  Creathorne  Clayton.  With  Por- 
traits.    8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00  ;  Half  Morocco,  $4  VS. 

Green'' s  Stray  Studies  from  England  and  Italy. 

Stray  Studies  from  England  and  Italy.  By  John  Richard  Green, 
M.A.     Post  8vo,Cloth,  $1  75. 

Brougham' s  Autobiogixiphy. 

The  Life  and  Times  of  Henry,  Lord  Brougham.  Written  by 
Himself.     3  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  in  a  box,  f  6  00. 

Macready'' s  Reminiscences. 

Macready's  Reminiscences,  and  Selections  from  his  Diary  and 
Letters.  Edited  by  Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Bart.,  one  of  his 
Executors.     With  Portraits.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Castelar''s  Life  of  Lord  Byron. 

Life  of  Lord  Byron,  and  other  Sketches.  By  Emilio  Castelar. 
Translated  by  Mrs.  Arthur  Arnold.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Castelar''s  Old  Rome  and  New  Italy. 

Old  Rome  and  New  Italy.  By  Ejiilio  Castelar.  Translated 
by  Mrs.  Arthur  Arnold.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Countess  Blessington''s  Memoirs. 

The  Literary  Life  and  Correspondence  of  the  Countess  of  Bless- 
ington.    Compiled  and  Edited  by  R.  R.  Madden.    With  Portrait. 

2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  |3  00. 

Haydori's  Autobiography. 

Life  of  Benjamin  Robert  Haydon,  Historical  Painter,  from  his 
Autobiography  and  Journals.  Edited  and  Compiled  by  Tom 
Taylor,  of  the  Inner  Temple.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Lord  Holland'' s  Foreign  Reminiscences. 

Foreign  Reminiscences,  by  Henry  Richard,  Lord  Holland.  Ed- 
ited by  his  Son,  Henry  Edward,  Lord  Holland.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$1  25. 


Books  of  Permanent  Interest. 


Simms's  Chevalier  Baijard. 

Life  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard.  By  W.  Gilmore  Simms.  Illus- 
trated.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Holmes's  Life  of  Mozart. 

Life  of  Mozart,  including  his  Correspondence.  By  Edward 
Holmes.     12mo,  Cloth,  %l  00. 

Sydney  Smith's  Life  and  Letters. 

A  Memoir  of  the  Reverend  Sydney  Smith.  By  his  Daughter, 
Lady  Holland.  With  a  Selection  from  his  Letters,  Edited  by 
Mrs.  Austin.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00;  Half  Calf,  $6  50. 

Curtis'' s  Lotus-Eating. 

Lotus-Eating.  A  Summer  Book.  By  George  William  Curtis. 
Hlustrated  from  designs  by  Kensett.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Curtis' s  Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji. 

Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji.  By  George  William  Curtis.  Timo, 
Cloth,  $1  50. 

Curtis'' s  Prue  and  I. 

Prue  and  I.     By  George  William  Curtis.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Curtis's  Hoivadji  in  Syria. 

The  Howadji  in  Syria.  By  George  William  Curtis.  12mo, 
Cloth,  f  1  50. 

Curtis^s  Potiphar  Papers. 

The  Potiphar  Papers.  By  George  William  Curtis.  Hlustrated 
by  Drawings  from  Hoppin.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Curtis's  Trump)s. 

Trumps.  A  Novel.  By  George  William  Curtis.  Illustrated 
by  Hoppin.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Disraeli's  Amenities  of  Literature. 

Amenities  of  Literature ;  consisting  of  Sketches  and  Characters 
of  English  Literature.  By  I.  Disraeli,  D.C.L.,  F.S.A.  2  vols., 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Hoivitt's  Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  British  Poets. 

Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  British  Poets.  By  William  Howitt. 
Illustrated.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


Books  of  Permanent  Interest. 


Forney's  Anecdotes  of  Public  Men. 

Anecdotes  of  Public  Men.  By  John  W.  Forney.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00. 

Cox's  Why  We  Laugh. 

Why  We  Laugh.     By  Samuel  S.  Cox.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Smiles' s  Character. 

Character.     By  Samuel  Smiles.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Smiles' s  Self-Help. 

Self-Help ;  with  Illustrations  of  Character,  Conduct,  and  Perse- 
verance. By  Samuel  Smiles.  New  Edition,  Revised  and  En- 
larged.    12mo,  Cloth,  f  1  00. 

Smiles' s  Thrift.      ■ 

Thrift.     By  Samuel  Smiles.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Smiles' s  Life  of  a  Scotch  Naturalist. 

Life  of  a  Scotch  Naturalist :  Thomas  Edward,  Associate  of  the 
Linnaean  Society.  By  Samuel  Smiles.  Portrait  and  Illustra- 
tions.    12mo,  Cloth,  |l  50. 

Smiles^  Lives  of  the  Stejohensons. 

The  Life  of  George  Stephenson,  and  his  Son,  Robert  Stephenson ; 
comprising,  also,  a  History  of  the  Invention  and  Introduction  of 
the  Railway  Locomotive.  By  Samuel  Smiles.  With  Portraits 
and  numerous  Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

Smiles'^s  Robert  Dick. 

Robert  Dick,  Baker,  of  Thurso ;  Geologist  and  Botanist.  By 
Samuel  Smiles,  LL.D.  With  a  Portrait  and  numerous  Illustra- 
tions.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Pardoeh  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  the  Court  of  France  in  the  Seven- 
teenth Century.  By  Miss  Julia  Pardoe.  Illustrated.  2  vols., 
rimo.  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Moore's  Life  of  Byron. 

Letters  and  Journals  of  Lord  Byron.  With  Notices  of  his  Life. 
By  Thomas  Moore.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00 ;  Sheep,  $5  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $8  50. 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  WORKS. 


ADAM  BEDE.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
DANIEL  DERONDA.     A  Novel.     2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 
IMPRESSIONS  OF  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
FELIX   HOLT,  THE   RADICAL.      A  Novel.      Hlustrated.      12mo, 

Cloth,  $1  25. 
MIDDLEMARCH.     A  Novel.     2  vols.,  12iiio,  Cloth,  $2  50. 
ROMOLA.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE,  and  SILAS  MARNER,  The  Weaver 

of  Raveloe.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  fl  25. 
THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth. 

$1  25. 


Harper  &  Brothers  also  publish  Cheaper  Editions  of  George  Eliot's 
Works,  as  follows : 

DANIEL  DERONDA.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.— IMPRESSIONS  OF 
THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH.  4to,  Paper,  10  cents.  — FELIX 
HOLT.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.— THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 
8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.— MIDDLEMARCH.  8vo,  Paper,  15  cents ; 
Cloth,  $1  25.— ROMOLA.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.— SCENES  OF 
CLERICAL  LIFE.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.  (Also,  in  3  vols., 
32mo,  Paper,  AMOS  BARTON,  MR.  GILFIL'S  LOVE  STORY, 
JANET'S  REPENTANCE,  20  cents  each.)— SILAS  MARNER. 
12mo,  Cloth,  '75  cents.— BROTHER  JACOB;  THE  LIFTED 
VEIL.     32mo,  Paper,  20  cents. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

^^^  Any  of  the  above  works  will  he  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to 
<iny  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  WORKS. 


HAKPER'S  POPULAR  EDITION. 

8vo,  Paper. 

Novels:  Denis  Duval.  Illustrated.  25  cents.  —  Henry  Esmond. 
50  cents. — Henry  Esmond,  and  Lovel  the  Widower.  Illustrated. 
60  cents. — Lovel  the  Widower.  20  cents. — Pendennis.  Illus- 
trated. 75  cents. — The  Adventures  of  Philip.  Illustrated.  60 
cents. — The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.  20  cents. — The  New- 
comes.  Illustrated.  90  cents. — The  Virginians.  Illustrated. 
90  cents. — Vanity  Fair.     Illustrated.     80  cents. 


Henry  Esmond,  4to,  Paper,  15  cents. 


HARPER'S  HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 

12mo,  Cloth. 
Novels:  Vanity  Fair. — Pendennis. — The  Newcomes. — The  Virgini- 
ans.— Adventures  of  Philip.  —  Henry  Esmond,  and  Lovel  the 
Widower.     Illustrated.      Six  volumes,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25  per 
volume. 

Miscellaneous  Writings  :  Barry  Lyndon,  Hoggarty  Diamond,  &c. — 
Paris  and  Irish  Sketch  Books,  «&c. — Book  of  Snobs,  Sketches, 
&c. — Four  Georges,  English  Humorists,  Roundabout  Papers,  &c. 
— Catherine,  Christmas  Books,  &c.  Illustrated.  Five  volumes, 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25  per  volume. 

Complete  Sets  (11  i'o/.<),$12  00. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Harper  &  Brothers  tvill  send  any  of  ilie  above  volumes  by  mail, 
postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of 
the  price. 


CHARLES  LEVER'S  NOYELS. 


A  DAY'S  RIDE.  A  Life's  Romance.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Paper, 
40  cents. 

BARRINGTON.     8vo,  Paper,  40  cents. 

GERALD  FITZGERALD,  "THE  CHEVALIER."      8vo,  Paper,  40 

cents. 
LORD   KILGOBBIN.      Illustrated.      8vo,  Paper,  50  cents;    Cloth, 

$1  00. 
LUTTRELL  OF  ARRAN.     8vo,  Paper,  60  cents  ;  Cloth,  $1  10. 

MAURICE  TIERNAY,  THE  SOLDIER  OF  FORTUNE.  8yo,  Pa- 
per, 50  cents. 

ONE  OF  THEM.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

ROLAND  CASHEL.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

SIR  BROOK  FOSSBROOKE.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

SIR  JASPER  CAREW,  KNT. ;  HIS  LIFE  AND  EXPERIENCES. 
With  some  Account  of  his  Over-reachings  and  Short-comings, 
now  first  given  to  the  World  by  Himself.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

THAT  BOY  OF  NORCOTT'S.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cts. 

THE   DALTONS;    OR,  THREE    ROADS   IN   LIFE.      8vo,  Paper, 

75  cents. 
THE  DODD  FAMILY  ABROAD.     8vo,  Paper,  fiO  cents. 
THE  FORTUNES  OF  GLENCORE.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
THE  MARTINS  OF  CRO'  MARTIN.     8vo,  Paper,  60  cents. 
TONY  BUTLER.     8vo,  Paper,  60  cents  ;  Cloth,  $1  10. 

The  Set  Complete,  5  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Any  of  the  above  uwJcs  will  he  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to 
any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  7-eceipt  of  the pirice. 


CHARLES  READE'S  WORKS. 


HAEPEE'S  POPULAE  EDITION. 

8vo,  Paper. 

HARD  CASH.     Illustrated.     50  cents. 

A  WOMAN-HATER.     Illustrated.     60  cents. 

FOUL  PLAY.     35  cents. 

GRIFFITH  GAUNT.     Illustrated.     40  cents. 

IT  IS  NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND.     50  cents. 

LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG.     35  cents. 

PEG   WOFFINGTON,    CHRISTIE    JOHNSTONE,   AND    OTHER 

TALES.     50  cents. 
PUT  YOURSELF  IN  HIS  PLACE.     Illustrated.     50  cents. 
THE  CLOISTER  AND  THE  HEARTH.     50  cents. 
THE  WANDERING  HEIR.     Illustrated.     25  cents. 
WHITE  LIES.     40  cents. 

A  HERO  AND  A  MARTYR.     With  a  Portrait.     15  cents. 
A  SIMPLETON.     35  cents. 
A  TERRIBLE  TEMPTATION.     Illustrated.     40  cents. 


32mo,  Paper. 
THE  JILT.     Illustrated.     20  cents. 
THE  COMING  MAN.     20  cents. 


HAEPEE'S  HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 

Illustrated.    1 2mo,  Cloth. 


HARD  CASH. 
FOUL  PLAY. 
WHITE  LIES. 
LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME 

LONG. 
GRIFFITH  GAUNT. 
THE     CLOISTER    AND     THE 

HEARTH. 


A  WOMAN-HATER. 

NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND. 

PEG  WOFFINGTON,  &c. 

PUT  YOURSELF  IN  HIS 
PLACE. 

A  TERRIBLE  TEMPTATION. 

A  SIMPLETON,  &  THE  WAN- 
DERING HEIR. 


Twelve  Volumes,     f  1  00  per  vol. 
Complete  Sets,  $10  00. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 
Sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  price. 


^ 


Bi'f'^?, 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


\ 


/ 


\ 


lOOM  11/86  Series  9482 


X 


viNilOin«3  iO    <■ 


\ 


o    THE  UBRARY  OF    o 


iU'f 

S 

?      i: 

icb 

s 

/ 


o    VlNdOllWi  JO    o 


o    OF  CAttFORNIA 


0    JO  ASVIian  3H1 


e 

W8W8HW9  WINWS 

< 

Z 

oe 
O 

^ 

h 

s 

o 

^ 

^ 

fl 

> 

z 


